


Strange Constructions

by chess_ka



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Murder, PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_ka/pseuds/chess_ka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourteen year old Bruce Banner witnesses the murder of his mother, and everything he's ever known is falling apart around him.</p><p>Chapter 16. Tony wants to kiss everybody, Mr Ross has it in for Bruce, and Brian Banner can't leave well enough alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity and ruin.” - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
> 
> Many thanks to branwyn for being so patient and helpful, particularly in correcting my Britishisms.

_“Get the kid away! For Christ’s sake, get him away!”_

_“Come on, sweetie, come with me-“_

_“He needs to see the paramedics – Jesus, look at his face-“_

_“That’s it, come with me sweetie, leave her, let the paramedics get to her-“_

_“Stop gawping you lot, move along now! Move along!”_

_“It’ll be alright, love, the paramedics need to have a look at you – it’s gonna be alright…”_

_“It’s Banner – yeah – always knew somethin’ was goin’ on there – “_

_“In front of his boy too. Poor kid-“_

_“He’s always been messed up, everyone knows that –“_

_“Move along, folks! This is a crime scene, you need to move along!”_

_“Sit down here, sweetie, that’s it – put this on your eye-“_

_“Terrible business. Terrible-“_

_The voices were buzzing in the distance. Something cold on his face. A heavy weight around his shoulders – a blanket – and his hands were red. Blood. There was blood on his hands and on his clothes and smeared on his glasses and on the sidewalk and in her hair and on her coat and now there were people, people around her touching her why were they touching her? Hot, metallic anger bubbled in his throat and they all needed to leave her alone and leave him alone leave him alone leave him alone-_

_His limbs were heavy and he couldn’t move. Anger raged inside him, beating at the walls of his mind, tearing and snarling and screaming, and there was nothing else, everything was empty and distant and covered in blood._

_Anger trickled hot into the empty spaces._


	2. Chapter 2

He'd arrived at Three Oaks Children's Home that night, brought by the grey-haired police woman who called him 'sweetie' and kept touching his arm, and a tall man who was some sort of social worker. He had sat with Bruce in the reception whilst the police woman talked to the home's manager. 

Bruce scuffed at the cream carpet with the toes of his battered sneakers. There was a faint buzzing from the lights overhead and it filled his head with a strangely comforting static. It was almost welcome.

The toe of one sneaker was peeling away. Mom had complained despairingly of the state of his sneakers last week. The memory should make him sad, Bruce thought, but an odd numbness seemed to have settled over him, like the orange blanket the paramedics had put around him in the ambulance earlier.

There was still a spot of blood on his jeans. He clenched his hands, driving his nails into his palms. The pricks of pain seemed to come from far away. He didn't know whether to be glad of that or not.

“You'll be okay here,” Social Worker said suddenly, as though he'd just remembered that he was supposed to be reassuring Bruce rather than sitting there like some kind of mannequin. “It's a nice place. Nice people.”

Bruce hated the word 'nice'. It was a frilly, meaningless word. Social Worker – if he'd told Bruce his name Bruce had forgotten it – was clearly waiting for some kind of response, so Bruce shrugged his shoulders. 

“I know this must be hard.”

Another shrug, and Bruce ducked his head, his hair falling forward. What a fucking stupid thing to say. No, he felt like answering. This is a fucking walk in the park. I see my mom beaten to death on a regular basis.

He didn't, and Social Worker lapsed into silence. The buzzing from the light filled the silence again.

The manager of the home was a small, birdlike woman, shorter even than Bruce, who was small for his age. Her face was lined and her dark hair greying, and she gave Bruce a genuine smile. She shook his hand, introduced herself as Grace.

“I'm glad to meet you, Robert,” she said in gentle tones. “Though I'm truly sorry it had to be in this way.”

He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Bruce,” he muttered, looking at his sneakers again.

“I'm sorry?”

“Bruce. Not Robert.” He'd never been Robert. He had no idea why his parents had even bothered naming him that, when they'd always called him Bruce. He'd never asked.

“Bruce, of course. I won't show you around tonight, that must be the last thing you need. I'll show you the bathroom and your room, okay?”

He shrugged, then nodded. It wasn't like he had a choice in this. 

“We'll leave you to it, then,” said the police woman, a false note of cheer in her voice. “We'll have to ask you some more questions about what happened, Bruce, but we'll leave it a couple of days. Give you time to settle in.”

She touched his arm on the way out, and Bruce curled his shoulders further forward. Social Worker moved as though to clap him on the back, but thought better of it, settling for a simple, “Goodbye, Bruce,” before leaving. Bruce was glad to see them go.

Bruce felt vaguely relieved when Grace told him he would have his own room. The idea of being in a room with strangers when he was trying to sleep made his skin feel tight. If nothing else, he would have his own space. 

Grace didn't really talk to him. She asked if he needed anything, like a toothbrush, and he shook his head. Someone had got some stuff from the house for him. He wasn't sure when.

Finally, he was left alone. He sat on the bed and it creaked slightly. It was in the middle of the room rather than in a corner, the way his bed at home had been. Bruce preferred to sleep with his back against a wall. Maybe they would let him move the bed.

He didn't bother undressing, just kicked off his sneakers and took off his glasses. The smear of blood had been cleaned away, but it seemed streaked into his eyeball, like the after-image of a camera flash. Closing his eyes didn't help.

*

The room was light and bright, with periwinkle blue curtains and white walls and an honest-to-god patchwork quilt on the bed.

Bruce hated every inch of it. It was trying so hard to be friendly and welcoming and soothing and it was just so fucking awful. He had never imagined that he’d miss his small bedroom at home, with its small, uncomfortable bed and rickety bookshelves and the tree outside that never let any light in, but it had at least been _his_.

Not any more, though. That wasn’t home – never had been, really, but it was more a home than this place. Except it wasn’t, now. Now _this_ was where he lived, and that thought made his throat burn and he wanted to rip the room to fucking pieces.

The people here weren’t much better. The staff were all kind to him, and it was so false and shallow that he barely restrained himself from punching them just to see something _real_ on their faces. The other kids mostly avoided him, which was something to be grateful for, at least. He hadn’t spoken a word to anyone since just after he’d arrived three days ago, and he didn’t plan on breaking that streak any time soon.

There were kids playing on the lawn underneath his window, shouting to each other excitedly, interspersed with the dull thunk of a baseball bat hitting a ball. They were all 'troubled' kids – this place was especially for kids who'd had what they called 'difficult home lives'. Bruce sneered to himself. A house of freaks, just like him, trapped in their white-washed rooms with their fucking patchwork quilts, letting them pretend to be normal.

_Well, fuck that._

There was a faint rap on the door, and Grace came in. She was carrying a folder and smiling.

“Good morning,” she said, coming over to the bed and sitting beside him. Bruce clenched his fists. “How are you feeling, today?”

Bruce shrugged. He dug his nails into his palms. 

Grace seemed unperturbed by his silence. She simply set her folder on her lap and folded her hands neatly. “Do you remember what I said yesterday, about beginning some of the sessions here? You have one this morning, a counselling session with Doctor Skervin.”

Bruce didn't want a counselling session. He didn't want to talk about what had happened. He certainly didn't want to talk about his _feelings_. He wished Grace would go away.

“I know how hard this must be for you, Bruce, but we're all here to help you and make this as easy as possible. Doctor Skervin will help you with what you're dealing with.”

Anger settled in Bruce's gut, and it felt _good_. After days of feeling nothing, of being numb and distant and empty, the anger was tangible. He felt as though he could reach down inside himself, take it in both hands, hot and glowing like metal on an anvil. He could twist it and shape it, he could _own_ it.

“Bruce, we want to help you, but we need you to let us.”

She kept saying his name, as though she wanted to make sure he knew she was talking to him. He remembered some psychology thing, where if you said someone's name often when you spoke to them it made them more disposed to like you. Did she really think he didn't see that? She had no fucking clue about him. She might say she knew how hard this was, but she didn't have the first fucking idea, and why couldn't she just _leave him alone?_

He didn't realise he had voiced this final thought out loud until he felt Grace start slightly. Bruce's heart was hammering wildly and the anger wasn't in his hands any more, it wasn't shaping and twisting to his command, it was spreading and growing, coursing from his gut to the tips of his fingers and up his throat to his tongue and up and up until it pulsed behind his eyes and Grace was still fucking _talking_ \- 

He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be here in this house in this room with this bird-like woman and the fucking patchwork quilt and the fucking blue curtains that were the colour of his mom's favourite dress that she would never wear again because she was lying on a fucking slab somewhere with blood in her hair and Bruce _hated it._

The curtains tore down easily, ripping from the rail like gauzy butterfly wings. He tore them into strips, hating them, hating their cheery colour, hating them for being here in this place with its white-washed walls and its cream carpets and its well-meaning adults and its residents who were meant to be _like him_ but who talked and laughed and played baseball and he wanted to _go home_ but home wasn't there any more there was just blood on the pavement and an empty house- 

A raw, choking sound broke out of his chest, and Bruce realised with horror that it sounded like a sob. His breath was coming in ragged bursts, and the anger seemed to retreat, slinking into the recesses of his mind like a wounded animal. His chest felt tight and his eyes prickled with shameful tears. Scraps of periwinkle blue were clutched in his shaking hands, and Grace was still sitting on the bed, watching him carefully. Bruce opened his hands, and the blue material fluttered gently to the ground. He couldn't look at Grace.

“I always thought a greener shade would be more pleasant in this room,” she said, her voice totally calm. 

Bruce put his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the floor. “I'll see that doctor,” he said quietly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a counsellor or a psychiatrist, and the knowledge I have of kids in care mostly comes from time working in the British education system. I've researched, but I apologise if I my portrayal is entirely inaccurate.
> 
> Once again, thanks to Branwyn for her invaluable support and endless patience in helping me with this fic.

The chair had deep cushions that sank so much under Bruce's weight that he almost fell backwards. He sat on the edge of the seat instead, so he could get up quickly should he need to. The wooden arms had small pocks and marks, as though countless other kids had sat and picked at them. Bruce clenched his hands in his lap instead.

This room was light, just like his bedroom. The curtains were a pale yellow colour with a pattern of darker, golden leaves. Outside, Bruce could see the driveway, lined with the three large oak trees. The sky was bright blue. He dug his nails into his palms.

Doctor Skervin had turned out to be a plump black woman wearing a long, floating red skirt and lots of jewellery. She had smiled at Bruce, invited him to sit down and offered him tea, which he had agreed to quietly. The strips of periwinkle blue on the floor upstairs were burnt into his mind, and he felt shame rolling like nausea in his stomach. His anger had faded slightly, and he felt a vague urge to be a little better.

“Here you are,” Doctor Skervin said, coming back over to her desk from where she had been making the tea. “I hope you like rooibos.”

Bruce had no idea what rooibos was, but he didn't like to say. The mug set in front of him had a smiling cartoon dog on it, and the rim was chipped. Steam curled gently upwards, faint tendrils that disappeared within moments. Doctor Skervin didn't seem to mind that he was watching his tea rather than drinking it; she settled into her own chair, hands wrapped around her mug, and sipped quietly. It was strangely peaceful, even though Bruce knew she was watching him. He relaxed his hands slightly. 

“Before we get started, there are a few things I just need to tell you.” Doctor Skervin didn't set her mug down, didn't sit up, and she smiled at Bruce over the mug's rim as she spoke, but there was an undeniable shift in mood. Bruce hunched his shoulders and nodded, still watching the steam rise from his tea.

“First of all, everything you tell me in this room is entirely confidential, with a couple of exceptions: if I think something you've told me shows you are a danger to yourself or to others, then I cannot keep that information to myself. Your safety has to come first.”

Only one other person had ever put Bruce's safety first.

_Blood on the sidewalk and in her hair and on his hands-_

He ducked his head down, hair falling into his face, which still bore faint bruises. “I don't want to talk about... what happened.”

Doctor Skervin's voice was gentle. “We don't have to talk about that yet,” she said. “We can talk about anything you like. I'd like to get to know you.”

_Like hell you would,_ Bruce thought, and the thought was accompanied by a fleeting, savage rage that curled his lip. As quickly as it came, it vanished.

“How are you settling in?”

“Fine.” To hide his momentary anger and the inadequate answer, Bruce picked up his mug of tea and took a sip. It was spicy, earthy and delicious, completely different to the strong coffee his dad always drank, or the earl grey his mom had preferred. 

“It sometimes takes a while to adjust to a new place,” Doctor Skervin said. “Especially when you're somewhere you haven't chosen to be, and in such difficult circumstances. No one expects you to feel at home yet, Bruce.”

Bruce didn't care what they expected, but he said nothing. He took a sip of his tea. Doctor Skervin set her mug down at last and laid her hands on the desk in front of her, loosely linking her thick fingers together. She was wearing several heavy, ugly rings. Her nails were neatly trimmed and smooth.

“Is there anything we can do to make things more comfortable for you, Bruce?”

His mom's nails had been short too, but ragged from years of compulsive biting. The skin around them had always been red, with flaking skin. Every now and again she would paint them, in a fruitless bid to stop herself from biting them to the quick, but the colour would always chip away. Her nails had borne the remnants of raspberry pink polish when the paramedics had taken her away.

“Perhaps a visitor would help. Is there a friend you'd like to see?”

Bruce blinked, looking up from his study of Doctor Skervin's nails and glancing at her face for a moment. It had not occurred to him that he could have visitors. That he could have something so normal, something good and real from before everything fell apart.

“Really?” 

“Of course. There are certain times when we allow visitors, as I'm sure you understand, but we can certainly arrange for it to happen.”

Bruce set his mug down and wrapped his arms around himself. His chest felt tight and god it was so _stupid_ but he suddenly missed Tony so much it made his stomach ache. Tony had gone to Malibu with his parents _weeks_ ago and then last week dad had taken away Bruce's cellphone and his laptop so he couldn't speak to Tony and Tony didn't know what had happened but he would help, Tony always helped-

“Bruce?”

“I want that,” he said quickly, just in case she changed her mind, just in case she thought he was too rude or too crazy to have a visitor. “Please. I want Tony to come over.”

“That's fine. Is Tony a friend from school?”

“Yeah. He's on vacation with his mom and dad. He gets back in a few days.”

Doctor Skervin made a note on a pad in front of her, and Bruce's stomach twisted. _Tony_. In a few days he could see Tony. He would know what to say, just like always. Over the last few years Bruce had always gone to Tony when things at home got too bad, and Tony had always known just what to do: they'd spend a good few minutes discussing what a bastard Bruce's dad was, and then settle down to play video games and eat pizza or surf the net or mess around with the bots Tony was building, until Bruce almost forgot about the bruises or his dad's voice echoing around his head.

“Grace says you've not spoken to any of the other residents here yet,” Doctor Skervin said, setting her pen down and lacing her fingers together again.

Bruce shrugged, wrapping his arms further around his middle. “I like being by myself.” It wasn't entirely a lie – he found people difficult to talk to, as a rule, and much preferred his own company. Loneliness was something he ruthlessly repressed.

“Still, you may find that you could make friends here. It might make it a little easier for you.”

He didn't want friends. He had Tony. He didn't need to get pally with some other kids who were as freaky as he was. They were probably all stupid, anyway. 

_But_ , a small voice at the back of his mind murmured, _if they think you're going to be trouble, they won't let Tony come over._

“I'll try,” he said instead.

“That's good, Bruce,” Doctor Skervin said encouragingly. “You'll be set up with a schedule starting next week for group activities and sessions. These are mandatory, and they're set up to help you get along here, and it'll be much easier if you have some friends to help you.”

Bruce shrugged, uncurling himself a little. “Okay,” he said. That seemed like a safe response. Doctor Skervin made an encouraging sound.

“Is there anything you would like to talk about?” she asked.

Bruce blinked. “Aren't you meant to ask me questions?”

“I could, but I'd rather know what you'd like to talk about.”

“I thought you'd be asking me loads of questions about what happened.”

“You said you didn't want to talk about what happened,” she reminded him gently.

“I don't!”

“That's fine. What would you like to talk about?”

_Your rings are ugly. Your skirt is too red. I hate all the colours here. Why have they made it all so fucking bright and cheerful when everyone here is so fucking messed up? Why are you pretending we're just here for a nice chat when we both know you're here to find out how fucking crazy I am. You want to know every tiny detail of what he did to me, so you can make up some bullshit analysis about why I am the way I am. My best friend is in fucking Malibu and I'm on my own in this fucking place and I hate his parents for taking him there when they don't give a shit about him, we could have spent this summer building bots and making a jet prop for Tony's bike but instead he's there and I'm here and I fucking hate this chair and your rings and the patchwork quilt and those fucking curtains-_

“I ruined the curtains,” he said eventually, because he had to say something to stop the rising tumult of fury that was bubbling and frothing in his chest.

“Which curtains?”

“In my room. I pulled them down. I tore them up.”

“Why did you do that?”

“They were – I hated the colour.”

“So you ripped them down.”

He nodded. It seemed pathetic now. Doctor Skervin didn't seem to mind. “What was it about the colour?” 

Bruce looked at his knees. He didn't answer for a long moment. “Mom had a dress that colour.”

“I see.” There was a pause. “It's perfectly normal to develop strong reactions like that, Bruce. Certain colours, smells, sounds... all of them can trigger an emotional response if they have a strong link to a memory. It's perfectly normal.”

Bruce wasn't sure that destroying curtains was perfectly normal, but he didn't say anything. At some point he had begun to chew on his thumbnail, and he shoved his hand under his thigh. He felt suddenly exhausted. 

“Can we stop?”

Doctor Skervin looked at the clock. “We technically have another half hour,” she said. “But okay, as it's your first session. I know this all must be a little overwhelming. I'll see you in a couple of days. Oh, and Bruce-” he had got to his feet, was about to open the door- “Try and talk to the other kids. You might surprise yourself.”

Bruce didn't answer. He shut the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Three Oaks was a large house set on what used to be a farm. It was rather crooked and ramshackle, with ivy growing up the walls and chickens scratching in the garden alongside the vegetable patch. There were ten residents – six boys and four girls – all of whom had their own room on the second and third floors of the house. The ground floor had a reception, a dining room and kitchen, offices for staff members, and a large living area with comfortable chairs, a television with games consoles, a selection of books and a battered ping pong table. It was, for all intents and purposes, a very good home.

Bruce hadn't yet spent any time in the living area. He had been to the dining room for meals, where he had sat slightly apart from everybody else, listening in on their conversations and pushing his food around his plate. A couple of the other kids had tried to talk to him on the first day, but had given up when Bruce had refused to acknowledge any of their comments. He was glad that they had got the hint.

Still, he had told Doctor Skervin that he would make an attempt at mingling with the other kids, and he wanted to at least show willing, since she was the one who would suggest that Tony be allowed to visit him. So it was that that evening, rather than shutting himself in his room after dinner, Bruce went down to the living room. Everybody was in there, and it seemed to be very busy and noisy. Bruce hovered in the doorway, hoping no one would notice him. He hated how desperately he wanted to turn tail and leave.

Two of the boys and one girl were sat on the sofa playing MarioKart with what seemed to be a great deal of enthusiasm. Bruce remembered Tony's outraged howls whenever Bruce fired a blue shell at him in their frequent MarioKart encounters, and he clenched his fists, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Two of the other boys were playing ping pong, whilst the other three girls were sat at a nearby table talking with their heads close together, a set of cards lying forgotten between them. 

There was a chair free in the corner near the bookshelves, on the opposite side of the room from the noisy MarioKart players. There was a boy curled up on one of the chairs, a sketchbook balanced on one skinny knee and a frown on his face as his pencil flew across the page. Bruce vaguely remembered this kid talking to him at lunch on his first day. Hopefully he was too absorbed in his drawing to bother Bruce this time.

A few of the kids sent curious looks Bruce's way as he headed for the empty chair, and the girls at the table immediately began giggling together. The eyes on him made his skin hot and tight, but he kept his focus on his goal. The chair was a faded, muted red, its covering frayed in places, and it was comfortable, much more so than the one in Doctor Skervin's office. Bruce grabbed the first book he could from the shelf and tucked his knees up, effectively coccooning himself away from the rest of the room.

Okay, so he wasn't talking to anyone, but he was in the room with them all. Doctor Skervin couldn't be too upset with him.

The stares didn't abate for a while, but Bruce pushed his glasses up his nose and determinedly began to read. The book was called “Frankenstein”. Bruce had never read it, though he had a vague idea of what it was about. There had been a copy on the bookshelf at home, the one full of his mom's fiction books that his dad had always made jokes about. Dad didn't like story books, he thought they were a waste of time, and he got mad whenever he caught Bruce reading one, even if it was for school. He hadn't got mad at mom for reading them, but had just made fun of her for it. Bruce liked reading, and it had become a strange rebellion against his dad. He had never dared rebel against Brian really, but hiding a couple of fiction books in his bedroom had felt strangely exciting.

The other kids in the room appeared to have lost interest in Bruce, except for the skinny kid with the sketchbook who kept shooting him what were clearly meant to be discreet glances. Bruce ignored him for a while, letting his eyes drift over the words without really taking anything in. Really, a fiction book about a scientist and his creation would have grabbed Bruce's imagination, but he couldn't hold onto the words. They slipped and slid in front of his eyes, and he hated that he didn't even have this form of escape.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was starting up behind his eyes, and the skinny kid was still looking at him.

“ _What?_ ” he snapped, glaring at him. 

The kid flinched but rallied quickly, giving Bruce a small smile. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I, er, I was drawing you. I wasn't trying to be rude.”

Bruce stared at the kid. “Why were you drawing me?”

“I like drawing. I've drawn everyone here loads of times, and you were – new. I'm sorry.”

The irritation at being watched still thrummed in Bruce's veins, but it seemed stupid to be mad at a kid with a sketchpad. He turned back to his book, trying to ignore the pain behind his eyes.

“I'm Steve,” the kid offered. “Steve Rogers. I spoke to you before, but I guess you were having a hard time then. This place is okay when you get used to it, I promise. I've been here for a few years.”

Bruce glanced at him. The kid's – Steve's – face was bright and earnest, and he was still smiling. He made a small sound of assent, hoping that that would get him out of this conversation.

“What's your name?”

Apparently not. Bruce sighed through his nose and turned the page of his book, though he hadn't taken in a word of the previous two pages. “Bruce.”

“Hi, Bruce.”

“Mm.”

Steve watched him for a few more moments, then ducked his head and went back to his sketching. Bruce was relieved, though he couldn't help but feel that Steve was the first person to speak to him because he _wanted_ to since Tony had left.

*

Social Worker came back the next day. He was smartly dressed in a shirt, tie and jacket, and was clearly sweating slightly in the hot August weather. He had an official-looking folder, and a name badge attached to his lapel. His name, apparently, was David. He smiled at Bruce. Bruce stared sullenly back.

“You can use my office to talk,” said Grace, directing David down the corridor. “Would you like coffee? Tea? Water?”

“Water, please,” said David. He didn't follow Grace's direction but looked at Bruce, clearly waiting for him to fall into line. Bruce clenched his hands, but he stepped up beside David. Maybe today he could get some answers about what the hell was going on. He'd asked Grace that morning about when the police would come back, about what he needed to do, about where his dad was, and she hadn't been able to tell him.

 _Wouldn't_ tell him, more like.

“So how are you settling in, Bruce?” David asked. He pulled Grace's chair round to the other side of the desk, so he could sit facing Bruce without the table between them. It was  
clearly meant to make Bruce feel at ease, to show him that they were in it together. Bruce glared at him.

“What's going on?” he asked. “They won't tell me anything. I've just been shut up here and no one is telling me _anything_.”

“I know this must be frustrating for you, Bruce. Of course you want answers, after everything that happened. There are a few things I can tell you now, though I'm afraid I probably can't tell you everything you want to hear...” 

David opened his folder, flicked through some pages. Bruce dug his nails into his palms.

“Okay. I know this won't be easy to hear, Bruce, but your father has been formally charged with the murder of your mother.”

Bruce almost laughed. _No shit_ , he thought.

“He has not been granted bail, so he'll be staying in prison until his trial. At this stage, we don't know when that will be. Now, I don't want you to worry, but there will be a hearing regarding the termination of your father's parental rights.”

Bruce's blood ran cold. “What – what does that mean?”

“At the hearing, the court will determine whether your father could still be considered a fit parent. It is almost certain that he will be found unfit, at which point you will be assigned a new legal guardian. Now, at this point that will be myself, unless you are placed with a foster family.”

Bruce looked at his knees, curling his shoulders in. His nails cut into his palms, the small pricks of pain almost welcome. He couldn't grasp onto a solid thought or emotion, everything was a swirling tempest. He took a deep, shaky breath, closing his eyes. His dad wouldn't be his dad any more. He'd have no parents. He'd be an _orphan_ -

“I don't want you to worry about that yet,” said David in what was meant to be a soothing voice. “Nothing is going to happen yet, and when it does there will be lawyers and other grown-ups to help you with it.”

Bruce longed, for a brief moment, to punch David right in his smug face. He took another deep breath.

“The last thing I need to talk to you about is school,” David continued, turning another page in his folder. “You're due to start tenth grade at Green Fields next week. You must be smart, being moved up two grades.” He gave Bruce a smile. Bruce scowled at him. 

“I'm very sorry, Bruce, but it seems that your father's finances would not have covered the tuition for Green Fields. I know this must be the last thing you need to hear, but you will have to start at Sandworth High instead. It is a very good school, and I've already spoken with the principal and he is fully aware of the situation-”

Bruce's head was suddenly full of white noise. He wouldn't be going back to his school. He wouldn't be in school with Tony. He was going to the stupid public school with kids he didn't know, with teachers he'd never met, and he wouldn't get to be with Tony – they were both going to try for early college entry this year – they were going to do it together – Tony was going to go to MIT and Bruce would go to Harvard or Culver and they'd do it _together_ but now it was all wrong - everything was wrong! 

His face was wet and hot, and mortification coiled in his gut as he realised he was crying. He hadn't cried about his mother's death, he hadn't cried about being put in a home, but not getting to go to school with Tony – God he was so fucking pathetic. He scrubbed at his face hard, pressing his lips together and trying to force the tears away. David offered him a box of tissues but Bruce shoved his arm away. He was on his feet and David was saying something to him but he didn't hear him, didn't _care_ what he had to say, because he'd come in here and uprooted even more of Bruce's life-

Bruce had no idea where he was going. He shoved past a couple of people. One of them he was sure was Steve but he didn't bother to stop and check, he just kept walking. He was outside before he realised it, and the sun was beating down and the sky was cloudless and blue and he _hated_ it for being so fucking perfect and beautiful when everything in him was broken and shattered. He walked over the lawn, past the scratching chickens and he felt so exposed out in the open where anyone could see him.

There was a rose bush growing by the fenceline, and there was just enough space between the two that he could crawl inside, bringing his knees to his chest and hiding his face. The rose thorns had snagged at his arms and hands but he didn't care. He sobbed into his knees and heard voices shouting him, and he yearned to feel slim arms wrap around him, for jasmine-scented perfume and a soft voice telling him that it was okay, that he would be alright.

There was just the smell of roses.

*

He wasn't surprised when the next day there was a psychiatrist sitting in on his appointment with Doctor Skervin. He had stayed behind the rose bush for hours before dragging himself out to meet the anger that would no doubt follow. Grace hadn't been angry, though. She had just told him that if he was upset and needed some time to himself he should just ask, rather than storming off. He had shrugged and nodded.

He had slept badly that night, tossing and turning and snapping out of dreams of jasmine-scented blood. Now his eyes felt heavy, his mind sluggish and his limbs slow. He had put on an over-large hoodie despite the heat, pulling the sleeves down over his hands and burying his chin into his chest. He sat hunched over in Doctor Skervin's office, not looking at her or the bearded man who was introduced as the psychiatrist, Doctor Haywood.

Bruce distantly considered that he should have argued and fought over having a psych appointment. A small corner of his mind was raging at him, _they think you're crazy they're going to lock you up in a padded fucking cell because you're a fucking freak-_ but he was too tired to acknowledge it. He answered their questions in a quiet mumble, looking at his knees and picking at his frayed cuff. Doctor Haywood had a kind voice but he frowned constantly, even more so when he wrote out a script for some medication, which he handed to Doctor Skervin. He explained the purpose of the drug in a calm tone - _benzodiazepines... anxiety... brain chemistry... side effects_ but Bruce barely heard him. He twisted his fingers together.

“I'll see you in a couple of weeks Bruce,” he said as Bruce stood up to leave. Bruce nodded then went to his room, where he buried himself in _Frankenstein_ again.

After dinner (where he spoke to no one but did give Steve a small smile when he told Bruce about the chickens getting into a scrap), Grace called Bruce to her office for his medication. 

“I'm not crazy,” he said, looking at the small pill in his palm.

“No,” Grace agreed. “But you are very anxious and distressed. No one could expect anything different Bruce, it's perfectly normal for you to feel that way, but this will help you feel a little more settled.”

“Do I have to take it?”

“I'm afraid so.”

 _Make me_ , he felt like saying. He didn't. He swallowed the pill and drank the water. Grace smiled at him, and he looked at the floor.

He read his book in the living room again. One of the girls, Laura, was reading too, and was so absorbed that she didn't seem to notice Bruce. That was fine by him. Steve was at the rickety table nearby, playing chess with Rachel. Bruce watched for a moment. He liked chess. Jarvis had taught him and Tony how to play last year, and they were good at it. Steve was quite good too – his moves were all carefully considered. He had opened with an Alekhine defence, and was merciless about sacrificing his own pieces in the course of the game. Rachel's eyebrows raised as Steve's knight took her bishop, and she swore softly. Bruce turned back to his book. He knew how the game would go. 

“Checkmate,” Steve's voice said quietly, half an hour later. Rachel groaned.

“How do you _always_ win?”

Steve shrugged modestly. “Lucky, I guess.”

 _Bullshit_ , thought Bruce from behind his book. Steve was a tactical player. He won because he was _good_.

For a moment, Bruce imagined standing up, walking over to the table, asking to play. Steve would smile and agree, of course. 

He didn't. He pushed his glasses up his nose and turned back to his book. At the table, Rachel demanded a rematch.

*

Bruce was heading back to his room after breakfast on Friday morning when he heard raised voices coming from the reception. One of them was Tom, one of the home assistants, and the other was achingly, wonderfully familiar.

“Whatever man, I don't care about visiting hours. Bruce has been through the shittiest of shitty times and I'm gonna see him. D'you even know who I _am_?”

“It doesn't matter who you are, kid. We've got visiting hours for residents. You can't just barge in here.”

“Like hell. I'm Tony _Stark_ , my friend, and if I want to see my fucked up BFF then that's just what I'll do.”

Somehow, being called 'fucked up' by Tony didn't hurt. Tony called Bruce lots of things, and he never meant them. He headed for the reception.

Tony looked exactly the same as he ever did: dark hair pushed back with studied nonchalance, an arrogant smirk on his face and his eyes glittering. His arms were folded in feigned relaxation, but there was a tension in his stance as he glared at Tom. As Bruce entered, Tom turned around and Tony glanced over. The smirk spread into a genuine grin.

“Banner! Three weeks, you don't call, you don't write! What the fuck, man!” 

Some of the tension left Bruce's shoulders, and he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Hey,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. “Sorry. Things got a little busy.”

Tony rolled his eyes, strode past Tom and pulled Bruce into a crushing hug. For a moment Bruce stiffened, then pulled his hands out of his pockets and returned the hug, breathing in Tony's familiar smell of engine oil and hair product. Something in his chest loosened. Tony was an immensely tactile person, whereas Bruce preferred to shy away from all physical contact, but he'd always been able to make exceptions where Tony was concerned.

“Get lost,” Tony suggested, and Bruce realised he was talking to Tom. “We're having a private moment, here.”

“How did you know I was here?” Bruce asked when Tom had left and Tony had released him.

Tony regarded him for a moment. “I've been trying to find out for ages, Brucey boy. Jarvis too. He says hi, by the way, and he's got some really boring looking books for you. Anyway, I was dicking around online last week, wondering whether my bestie had fallen off the face of the planet, checking out news stories from the old home town – y'know, keeping up on important things like the football team's score and whether the pot holes have been filled in – when I discover that one Brian “cockface” Banner is in fact a bigger fucking cockface than I ever thought possible. It was all over the fucking news Bruce, did you not know?”

Bruce shook his head mutely. He hadn't known. He vaguely remembered a crowd of people around the house as he'd been pulled away from his mother, their whispered comments floating around him as he'd struggled and yelled, blood on his hands, but it had never occurred to him that it would be on the news. The idea of an expressionless news anchor reciting the details of that day, or of black and white newsprint spelling out his parents' names, made him feel sick.

“Jesus,” muttered Tony. “Have they told you anything? I bet they've not. They've just locked you up here and tried to make you feel all cosy.”

“Nail on the head,” Bruce muttered.

“Bastards. Anyway, Dad refused to come back here any earlier, though I threw a pretty spectacular tantrum about it. Then Jarvis went and tried to be reasonable, but even that didn't work. Jarvis said you'd be in one of these places if you didn't have anyone to take you in, and it didn't take that much to find out where you were. Honestly, information security, what even is that? I guess you can't break out of this place yet, huh?”

“I – don't think so. I probably shouldn't anyway, they're already giving me drugs because I'm 'emotionally unstable'.”

“What the fuck. I wonder why that could be? It's a mystery.”

Bruce had no idea where he was allowed to take Tony, but the garden seemed reasonable enough. Tom would no doubt have told Grace what had happened, but she hadn't appeared to lay down any sort of law, so he was taking that as permission.

“Tell me about Malibu,” he said when they were outside. He was feeling strange, as though he had sunk into a deep, peaceful ocean and was watching things happening above the surface. He knew Tony was bursting with questions, but he wanted to hear about something else for a while.

Tony obligingly launched into an account of his trip, including detailed descriptions of girls he'd seen on the beach (“I tell you, man, her tits were bigger than my _head_...”), dismissive comments about his dad (“he ignores me for most of the fucking year and then he's hanging around asking questions and trying to be World's Best Dad...”) and exuberant explanations of his ideas for his bots (“I figure we need to modify the servo so it has a continuous rotation-”) before falling into excited chatter about his application for MIT.

“... I figure if I get the application off before Thanksgiving I might get my acceptance just after Christmas. I mean, they'll obviously accept me, they'd be idiots to let brains and good looks like this go – wow, _chickens_. Bruce, you live on a _farm_ now. You should start chewing grass stalks and wearing straw hats.”

Tony leaned over into the chicken run, eyes wide as he observed the clucking, fussing creatures. Bruce stood next to him, hands in his pockets. “Wow,” Tony said. “Neat. They look like Mrs Wallace, doncha think?” 

Mrs Wallace was their English teacher, a plump, curly-haired woman who walked with a strange bobbing motion. Bruce could see the resemblance, but the reminder of school made the smile die on his lips.

“Tony,” he said, but then had no idea what to say. He bit his lip. Tony straightened up, frowning at him.

“What?”

“I just – they told me yesterday – my dad he – used all our money. He didn't pay my tuition. I can't go back to Green Fields. I've gotta go to Sandworth instead.”

Tony stared at him, his mouth slightly open. “What?” he said, disbelief in his voice. “No way! They can't pull you out and send you to a new school on top of everything else!”

“They can,” said Bruce, feeling suddenly exhausted. “They are. It's shit, but I can't do anything about it.”

“Like hell,” Tony snarled, his eyes glittering with anger. “You're not going to that shithole. Green Fields is shithole enough. What the fuck would they do with you?” He groaned. “God, they'll be teaching you fucking _molecular structures_. They'll bore the tits off you. No way man, not happening, I can't survive the assholes at that place without you. I'll talk to dad. He likes you. He was on about scholarship programmes the other day.”

“I'm not a charity case, Tony,” Bruce said, but he didn't really feel angry. His emotions were strangely muted. Anyway, Tony's indignation on Bruce's behalf was refreshing.

“Whatever. It'll be doing me a favour. None of this leaving me in class on own with _Richards_. That guy is such a fucking creep. He gives me the willies.”

“You can't fix everything, Tony,” Bruce mumbled. He felt suddenly dizzy, his limbs heavy and his words slow. God, he was tired.

“Bruce? Man, you don't look so hot. C'mere-” Tony took Bruce's arm and towed him to a bench by the hedgeline, pushing him into it and sitting beside him. Bruce put his face in his hands and waited for the dizziness to subside. After a moment, Tony spoke, “I could fix that part, though. Just that one thing. I could try, anyway. I can't fix any of this other complete and utter bullshit, and I hate it. Whatever you need though, Brucey-kins, I'm here.” He bumped his shoulder gently against Bruce's. “You gotta come over sometime. Jarvis wants to see you. He was having kittens in Malibu, and I gotta tell you, it was fucking freaky seeing Jarvis actively flail. I didn't think he had it in him. But seriously, man, are you alright?”

“Tired,” Bruce muttered. “Dizzy.”

“I meant more in general, but okay. Are you sick? D'you wanna go back inside?”

“No. Here is good.” He'd probably fall over if he stood up, anyway. “And in general I'm fucking crap, Tony.”

“Yeah. This blows.”

“Yeah.”

“Bruce?” Grace was walking over the lawn towards them. A familiar sense of dread settled in Bruce's stomach – it was the exact same sensation that always came over him when he'd done something to upset his dad. It was stupid, his dad wasn't here, it wasn't like Grace was going to belt him or anything. He swallowed. “We wondered where you'd gone,” Grace said lightly as she drew level with the bench. Her eyes fell on Tony. “Hello, you must be Tony. I'm Grace.”

Tony got to his feet and shook Grace's hand, charming smile firmly in place. “Grace! Lovely to meet you.”

“I appreciate that you must have been worried about your friend, Mr Stark, and of course you would want to see him as soon as possible, but in future I must ask that you stick to visiting times. It wouldn't be fair on our other residents otherwise.”

For a moment Bruce thought Tony would argue, but instead he smiled beatifically. “Sure thing, Grace. I was just all kinds of worked up, you know? Just needed to check that Bruce was hanging in there. Won't happen again. Normal visiting times from here on out.”

Bruce wondered if Grace could tell that Tony was bullshitting her. If she did, she gave no sign. “Thank you, Mr Stark,” she said. “Bruce, I know it's a lovely day and you boys are doing fine, but next time just let someone know if you're going outside, okay? I'll see you at dinner.”

Once Grace had gone, Tony dug in his pocket. “Present for ya,” he said, dropping a sleek cellphone into Bruce's hand. “And don't give me the charity talk, Banner. If you're gonna be a pain in the ass about it, think of it as an early Christmas present.”

Bruce almost smiled. “My birthday comes first.”

“Early birthday present,” Tony amended. “I wasn't sure if your cell would be, I dunno, taken for evidence or some shit, and I keep getting new ones and I want to actually, y'know, keep in touch outside of fucking 'visiting hours'. So take the damn phone, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Tony.”

Tony bumped his shoulder roughly. “Not a problem, big guy. You still feeling rough?”

“I'm a bit better.” The dizziness had subsided, though he still felt wrung-out. “I should probably go back in.” He didn't want Tony to go, but he also wanted to curl up and go to sleep for approximately a year, or until all this crap went away.

“Yeah, I should get going too.” Tony stood, looking a little discomfited for the first time. It was strange, Bruce thought. Tony had always looked worried when he'd left Bruce to go back home, but he'd never looked as confused and miserable as this. 

“I'll text you,” Bruce offered. He stood up and they made their way back to the house. “Let you know visiting times.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that's good. Find out when you're allowed to leave too. They can't keep you locked up here, it's not like an asylum. You need to come over so I can destroy you on Worms 2.”

“Like you have a hope in hell,” Bruce retorted, and that felt kind of good. Bantering with Tony was something good from before.

“I'll see you, man,” Tony said easily, giving him a brief hug and clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Yeah. See you.” 

When Tony had disappeared out the front door, a wave of loneliness crashed into Bruce's chest. He curled his hands into fists and put them in his pockets. The cell phone was cool and smooth against his fingers, and he clutched it as tightly as a lifeline.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of self-harm in this chapter.

Bruce hovered outside Grace’s door for a few moments before knocking quietly.

“Come in,” she called. Bruce pushed open the door, edging into the room. He hovered near the doorway, fidgeting with his cuff and looking fixedly at the corner of Grace’s desk. “Bruce,” she said warmly. “Come and sit down.”

He complied with her request, darting his gaze up to meet hers before sitting on the very edge of the chair. His thoughts still felt rather slow, as though his mind was fogged. He guessed that it was the medication. He didn’t much like it, but he hadn’t much liked the racing panic his thoughts had been over the last few days either. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to, um. Say thanks. For letting Tony see me, even if he was a bit… pushy.”

“Oh,” said Grace, sounding surprised. She was probably shocked that Bruce was thanking her. He’d made himself seem pretty rude and unpleasant since he’d been here, after all. “Well, you’re welcome. I understand that he was worried about you, and I think it was good for you to see your friend.”

Bruce nodded, flicking his eyes to her face for a brief moment. She was smiling. He licked his lips, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Um. I wanted to – to ask something.”

“Of course.”

“Will I be allowed to go – out? Like, to Tony’s house, or something? I don’t have to stay here all the time?”

Grace pursed her lips, and Bruce knew she was going to refuse. His heart sank. “You aren’t a prisoner here, Bruce,” she said. “You have every right to see your friends. I’m going to say no for now, because I want to make sure that you’re settled into the routine here and that your medication is working for you. Once myself and Doctor Skervin are happy with how you’re doing, then we can certainly arrange for you to be able to go to Tony’s.”

It was less than he had wanted, but more than he had expected. “Thanks. Um. I’ve been feeling all tired today, and I got a bit dizzy earlier. Is that the meds?”

“Those are common side effects, so that’s likely. Have you felt nauseous, or been sick?” 

“No. Just tired.”

“Alright. I’ll let Doctor Skervin know they’re making you tired. The side effects should pass in a few days. If they don’t, let a staff member know and we’ll see what we can do.”

He nodded. “Okay. I will.” 

“Actually, I’m glad you came to see me Bruce. This afternoon we’re having a group therapy session, and it’s one that’s on your schedule. It starts at four, in the large meeting room down the hall. I’d like you to come along.”

It was phrased as a request, but Bruce suspected it wasn’t one at all. The idea of a group therapy session made his stomach twist, and he wanted to refuse, but he knew that he needed to show willing now. If he didn’t, they wouldn’t let him see Tony. “Okay.”

“Excellent. Is there anything else you needed to talk about?” Grace’s voice softened, became inviting. There were lots of things she no doubt wanted him to talk about, but he wasn’t ready to give them to anyone yet. He shook his head. “Okay. Well, I’d best get these reports done. I’ll see you later on.”

“Okay. Um. Thanks.”

*

Bruce was in the living room after lunch, pretending to read as he watched the other kids. Mark and Henry were playing some kind of fighting game on the Wii. Bruce tried not to listen to the recorded sounds of punches and kicks. Sean was at the corner table, his hands in his hair as he muttered to himself. He kept tugging at his hair, and his eyes darted around the room. Sean was usually quiet and kept to himself, much like Bruce did. Bruce wondered whether Sean was actually crazy.

From the corridor, there was suddenly a lot of movement – hurrying footsteps squeaking on the wooden floors, urgent voices deliberately kept low. Mark and Henry paused their game to look over. Bruce got up, went to the door and nearly ran into Laura as she entered, who was pale, her eyes red-rimmed.

“What happened?” Bruce demanded. He’d never spoken to Laura before. She rubbed her eyes fiercely.

“Rachel,” she said. Bruce didn’t understand.

“Aw man, again?” Henry had come over to them. “That’s the second time in a month.”

“They’re gonna send her away this time,” said Mark in agreement. “Psych ward.” He looked at Bruce, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “She’s a cutter. Self harm, yeah? Got all these scars.” He drew lines across his right wrist with his finger. “Badass, right?”

Bruce made a non-committal sound. Laura gave Mark a shove, tears spilling down her cheeks again. “Shut the fuck _up_.”

“Ooh, feisty,” Mark leered. “Push me again.” 

Laura snarled and barrelled forward, her shoulder colliding with Mark’s chest. He stumbled back with a grunt, his face darkening. “You little bitch,” he snapped, starting forwards. Before he knew what he was doing, Bruce was in front of Laura, his fists clenched tightly. His father’s voice echoed in his head.

_You worthless bitch, you’d stay out the fucking way if you knew what was good for you-_

“Leave her alone.” Bruce’s voice was quiet. He was shaking.

“Yeah? You gonna make me?” Mark was taller than Bruce, and broader, but there was a dark flood rising in Bruce’s mind, fighting against the dull sensation that had blanketed his emotions all day. He seized the front of Mark’s shirt, twisting the material in his fists. He’d pummel Mark into the carpet if he had to.

Laura was telling them to stop, Henry had grabbed Mark’s upper arm, was trying to pull him away, “C’mon man, he’s just bein’ a freak-“

“Don’t say that,” said a calm voice. A hand touched Bruce’s shoulder. Steve stood beside him, his expression placid as he looked at Mark and Henry. “C’mon, it’s nearly dinnertime. Rachel’s gone to the hospital but she’s gonna be fine.”

Steve’s words seemed to dissolve the tension. The darkness sank back into Bruce’s head, and he pulled away, dropping his gaze to the floor and stuffing his hands in his pockets. Mark jostled his shoulder as he left the room with Henry, but Bruce didn’t react. Once they’d gone, Laura blurted out a quick, “Thanks,” then left the room herself. 

“You okay?” Steve asked as Bruce sat down.

Bruce nodded. “He called her names.”

“Yeah. He does that. He’s not very nice, sometimes. You’ll get in trouble for fighting, though. It’s good that you stopped.” 

Bruce shrugged.

Steve watched him for a moment, as though waiting for Bruce to speak, then he just gave him a small smile. “See you later,” he offered, then slipped from the room. Obviously no one wanted to be near the freak who lost it like that. Bruce clenched his hands on his knees. Sean sat at the table still, seemingly not having noticed what had happened.

*

The chairs in the meeting room were laid out in a semi-circle, all facing one other chair. Steve was already there, sat in the middle, and he smiled at Bruce when he came in. Bruce nodded at him, then sat in a chair at the edge of the semi-circle, nearest the door, and folded his arms tightly over his chest, ducking his head so his hair fell forward. Steve looked a little disappointed, but he rallied.

“These meetings are usually okay,” he said. “Just to make sure everyone’s getting along. They’ll probably want to talk about what happened with Mark.”

Bruce had been afraid of that. He’d get into trouble for fighting and Tony would never be able to come visit. He tightened his arms.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Steve continued. “Mark was being nasty. You were looking out for Laura.”

He’d grabbed the front of Mark’s shirt. He’d _wanted_ to hit him. That was bad enough. 

“It’ll be fine,” Steve said encouragingly. “You’ll see. Worse things have happened here.”

Grace arrived a few moments later, carrying a notebook. She smiled at Bruce and made small talk with Steve as the others trickled in. Neither Rachel nor Laura were there. Rachel, of course, was in hospital, and Bruce guessed Laura was too upset to attend. Heidi and Jacqueline whispered together, glancing over at Bruce as they did so. He glared at them until they looked away again. Mark and Henry sat on the other side of the semi-circle, and Mark shot frequent furious glances in Bruce’s direction. Sean had stopped his muttering and was slumped quietly between Steve and Ben, who was the last to arrive.

“Okay, let’s get started,” said Grace once Ben had sat down. She smiled around at them all, and her golden earrings caught the afternoon light streaming in through the large windows. “First thing’s first, you’ll all have noticed we have a new resident, so I’d like to start with welcoming Bruce to our group.”

The other kids muttered various greetings, and Bruce wanted to sink through the floor as they all looked at him. He glanced up briefly and nodded by way of greeting. 

Grace didn’t seem too put off by the lacklustre response. “Second thing, you are of course all aware that there was an incident concerning Rachel earlier today. I’m happy to tell you that the hospital says she will make a full recovery. She will stay there overnight and then possibly spend a few days recovering elsewhere before returning to Three Oaks, but she will be absolutely fine.”

Bruce wondered what Grace’s version of ‘absolutely fine’ was.

“Now,” Grace sat forward, her expression becoming more serious. “There was an incident in the living room this afternoon, whilst the staff team were caring for Rachel. A few of you were involved, and I would like you to tell me what happened.”

An uncomfortable silence descended. Heidi glanced almost eagerly between Bruce and Mark. Bruce clenched his hands and stared determinedly forward. He wasn’t going to be the one to say anything.

“Laura pushed me,” Mark said eventually. “Then _he_ -” he pointed at Bruce – “grabbed me.”

“You were being a fu- you were being nasty about Rachel,” Jacqueline said, scowling at Mark. “He said her cutting herself was ‘badass’. That’s what Laura told me.”

“Laura’s a fucking liar.”

“Language, Mark,” Grace warned. “And self harm is a very serious issue. Did you say that to Laura?”

“So what if I did?”

“Laura was very upset by what had happened to her friend. You should have been kind to her.”

Mark glared. 

“So what happened after this?”

“He grabbed me!”

“Bruce?”

Bruce didn’t want to talk about this. He clenched his hands. Everyone was looking at him. “He called Laura a bitch,” he said to his knees. “I got mad. I wanted to make him leave her alone. I grabbed his shirt.”

“He was gonna hit me. He’s cracked.”

Bruce dug his nails into his palms. “I’m not. Shut up.” He imagined standing up, walking over to Mark and smacking him properly. That would show him.

“Bruce is telling the truth,” Steve piped up. “Mark was saying horrible things to Laura, and she was getting upset. Bruce just stepped in between them and made him stop. He didn’t do anything.”

Grace made a thoughtful noise. “Thank you, Steve. Alright, I would like to remind everybody here that fighting is _not_ tolerated at Three Oaks. Disagreements can be sorted out in productive, non-violent ways. If you have a problem with another resident, you need to talk to a member of the staff and we can work together to sort it out. Alright?” There was a mumbled agreement from everybody. “Mark, I’m going to need you to apologise to Laura when you see her. Bruce, you and Mark need to apologise to one another. Now.”

 _Why the fuck should I?_ Bruce thought fiercely. Mark was clearly a complete prick. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, barely looking over at him. Mark’s apology was similarly insincere. Grace sighed, but clearly accepted that that was the best she was going to get. 

“Now, moving on,” she began in a brisk tone. “It’s back to school on Monday – how are we all feeling about that?”

Bruce kept to himself for the rest of the meeting, only offering short remarks when directly addressed. Some of the other kids – Steve, Ben, Heidi and Jacqueline – were talkative, going over their concerns about school, or what they were looking forward to. Heidi was worried about failing everything, and Bruce barely contained an eye roll. He was right, everyone at Sandworth was going to be stupid. It would be _unbearable_. 

Finally, mercifully, the meeting came to an end, and Bruce left as quickly as he possibly could, not talking to anybody. That didn’t stop Mark’s hiss of, “ _Freak_ ,” as he passed in the corridor.

*

_Old McDonald! How’s things on the farm?_

_Shitty. Nearly punched one of the pricks here._

_Ooh youre hardcore Bruciekins_

_*You’re. Apostrophes are your friend, Stark._

_Whatever man Ive got no time for punctuation I think way too fast for that. I had this awesome dream about jetpacks last night. We are gonna design a jetpack_

_You can test it_

_Hell yeah I can test it. You can too. Dont be a wuss Banner_

_I'll remind you of that when you crash and die a fiery death._

_That wont happen. And if it does Ill go out in a blaze of glory. All the hot chicks will weep over my glorious dead body_

_Fat lot of good thatll do you_

_You can comfort em Brucie. I give you my blessing_

_Wow thanks. I feel so honoured._

_You should be. Fuuuuuck man why is school starting tomorrow. This blows_

_You’re telling me. If the kids here are a statistical representative of Sandworth then I’m going to rip my eyes out with boredom in about half an hour._

_Make sure you get a video of that. It sounds badass. Ugh it is going to suck without you. Just me the idiots and Richards, worlds mightiest prick_

_Fuck I’ve got to go. They have actual lights out times here._

_Seriously? Its only 11pm. Dude the night is young!_

_Tell me about it. I’m toeing the line so they’ll let me come see you._

_Thats acceptable I guess, though I am pouting at you from here. See: :( You better come see me asap because I am having Bruce withdrawal. Jarvis played Worms with me today but he SUCKED_

_Jarvis playing Worms is a very disturbing image. I’m working on it, I hope if I’m a good little boy all week they’ll release me into the wild on the weekend._

_They better. If they dont then I will come bust you out with a fireaxe_

_Night dude._

_Ciao big guy_

*

Sandworth High was very different to Green Fields, and the sight of the hulking, grey building did not fill Bruce with confidence. Green Fields was set amongst large, rolling lawns, as the name suggested, and had big windows and modern, open plan structures. Sandworth looked oppressive and gloomy. 

Bruce dug his nails into his palm, trying to stop his hands shaking. He hated how nervous he was. This, even more than Three Oaks, was solid, painful proof that his life had turned upside down, and he’d lost all control over it. As he filed off the bus with the other kids, he was seized by the powerful urge to make a break for it. He could run away before anyone could stop him, before anyone would notice. It wasn’t far from his old neighbourhood, he could go back to his old house, his old hideouts, and no one would find him.

He didn't. He stuck his hands in his pockets and followed the stream of kids heading up the steps to the front doors. As everybody else disappeared down corridors, seemingly knowing where they were going, Bruce shuffled to the reception area. A curly-haired woman was tapping away at a computer, frowning. She didn't notice Bruce, so he rapped on the glass window. She looked up and heaved a sigh, laboriously getting up and coming to slide the window across.

“Yes?”

“Er. I'm new here. I need to get my schedule and stuff.”

“Name?” 

“Bruce. Bruce Banner.” 

Her eyebrows went up, and Bruce wondered for a sickening moment whether she recognised the name from the news. 'Banner' wasn't that common a surname. She sighed through her nose again, as though Bruce were causing her a serious problem.

“You need to see Mr Coulson. He'll tell you what's what. Second door on the left down there.” She jerked her head at a corridor. 

Bruce left the bad-tempered receptionist and headed down a non-descript corridor lined with empty display boards and knocked on a door labelled “Mr P. Coulson”.

“Come in!”

Bruce stuck his head into the office. “Um. Hello. I'm Bruce Banner – I'm new. I was told to come here-?”

“Ah! Come in, Bruce, come in. It's nice to meet you.” Mr Coulson stood up and adjusted his jacket, gesturing Bruce into the room and holding out his hand for him to shake. “How are you feeling? Always a little nerve-wracking, first day somewhere new. I was terrified my first day here.” His smile was easy as he settled back in his chair, gesturing for Bruce to sit down, and Bruce couldn't imagine him getting nervous at all.

“I'm okay,” he lied.

“Glad to hear it. Now, I was given a bit of information on you, but I've not had a chance to look it over – you'll have to excuse me, the beginning of a new semester is always so busy - ah, here we are-” Mr Coulson rummaged in a desk drawer and pulled out a slim file. Bruce was becoming depressingly used to people have folders of information on him. He licked his lips and fiddled with the cuff of his jacket.

“You were at Green Fields, hm? That's good. You'll probably find things different here, but I'm sure you'll manage. And you're... fourteen? You must have skipped some grades.”

“Yeah.” Bruce thought of Tony, and his throat ached. He'd sent Bruce a text that morning: _Hope the shit hole doesnt drag you down. Keep on trucking Banner._

Coulson began to talk about his schedule, and Bruce forced himself to pay attention and ignore the sneering voice in his head that told him how pointless the whole thing was, did it really matter whether he picked Spanish or French? Who cared? Everything had gone to shit anyway.

“What's your favourite class?” Mr Coulson asked at one point.

“Science,” Bruce said immediately. “Especially Physics. But I like Chemistry too.”

“Yes, your grades in that area are remarkable,” Mr Coulson murmured. Bruce ducked his head. He'd been given an IQ test a couple of years ago, and the man that had done it had made amazed little sounds before telling Bruce that he was at the top of the scale. He'd even beaten Tony, which Tony had taken with remarkable aplomb. 

“Do you want to work in the sciences?”

“I'm going to be a physicist,” Bruce said. _Like my dad_ , he didn't add, because that gave him a hollow feeling in his stomach he preferred not to think about. Coulson made a thoughtful noise. 

Finally, Bruce was handed a completed class schedule: History, World Literature, Physics, Spanish, Calculus and Chemistry. It wasn't bad. At least he'd get to do science twice a day.

“Right,” said Coulson, smiling, “now that that's sorted out, I've assigned another student to show you around for the first couple of days – this place is a bit of a rabbit warren, so she'll help you out. In fact, I think she has World Lit with you. Wait here, and I'll go and fetch her.”

Bruce wanted to say that he was okay, he'd find his way and he didn't need some girl to look after him, but Mr Coulson had already left the room. Bruce turned to his schedule. He'd just get rid of the girl as quickly as he could, say he could manage just fine by himself. His cell vibrated in his pocket.

_Just had chem with Richards. BOOOOOORING. Then Johnson yelled at me for overdoing it with the magnesium. Whatever, he loves me. How's snoresville?_

_Just fixed classes. Going to get shown round by some girl._

_Hope shes hot. Hit that, Brucey baby_

Bruce was saved replying to Tony's text by the reappearance of Coulson, who was followed by a dark-haired girl.

“Bruce, this is Elizabeth Ross. She'll show you the ropes.”

“Hi,” said the girl brightly. “Call me Betty. I'm only Elizabeth when Dad's mad at me.”

“Um,” Bruce said. “Hi, Betty.” It was a strangely old-fashioned name, but it suited her.

“C'mon, I'll show you the way. Miss Frost's class is right on the other side.”

Betty chattered happily as she led him through empty corridors – she'd been brought out of class early, and the bell had not yet rung. She was in the tenth grade but she, like Bruce, had been moved ahead. “I skipped third grade,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “When did you skip?“

“Um. Third too. And eighth.”

“I bet here is really different to Green Fields.”

Bruce shrugged. “So far. There's not as many windows.”

Betty giggled. “Yeah, this place is a bit like a prison, really. The labs have bars on the windows.”

“How come?”

“Some kids tried to steal chemicals last year. Idiots. They said they were going to make a bomb, but all they took was some potassium chloride.”

Despite himself, Bruce grinned. “What were they going to do, add some silver nitrate?”

Betty's eyes sparkled. “The terrifying power of silver chloride!”

They both laughed, and it suddenly occurred to Bruce that Betty was very pretty, with her shining hair and large, dark eyes. She had a small gap between her front teeth that showed when she smiled. He tried not to stare.

In World Literature their teacher introduced Bruce to the whole class, and he really, really wished she hadn't. Everyone looked at him, and he distinctly heard some whispers from the back of the class that made him clench his fists.

_”His dad's in jail-”_

_“Killed his mom – yeah – he's seriously nuts-”_

Bruce felt the colour rise in his cheeks and he stared determinedly forward. Betty, who had sat beside him, turned and glared at the whisperers, who quickly fell quiet. Shame and misery warred in Bruce's stomach, but he couldn't help the small bubble of warmth that came from Betty's silent defence.

He should have expected this, really. It had been all over the news just over a week ago, and Oakwood wasn't exactly a large town. People would have been gossiping about it ever since it happened, about crazy, drunk Brian Banner beating his wife to death - 

“Bruce?” Betty murmured. “You okay? You're all pale.”

He blinked, resurfacing. A girl at the front of the class had started to read out from the book they were going to study. Betty had their shared copy open, but was looking at him in concern. Bruce decided that she was one of the nicest people he'd ever met.

“I'm okay.”

“Don't let those jerks get to you.”

“Quiet, please!” called Miss Frost, and Betty's head snapped back to _Things Fall Apart_. She wordlessly pointed Bruce to their place on the page. He pushed his crowded thoughts away and tried to concentrate.

*  
Betty hung around with Bruce for most of the day, and to his surprise he didn’t mind. She didn’t act as though she were obligated lto spend time with him – though she had obviously been asked to do it – and they even managed to have normal conversations. She was clever and interested in science and science-fiction and she had laughed when Bruce had complained over how basic their Physics lesson was.

“I’m pretty sure I knew basic vector addition when I was seven,” she agreed, and he smiled at her. He’d told her about the bots and he and Tony were making, and she’d been interested. She’d asked questions, _real_ questions about their construction. By the time lunch came around, Bruce had decided that Sandworth was really boring, but it would be okay if he could talk to Betty.

“D’you want to get lunch?” she asked at the end of Physics. 

“Um. Don’t you want to meet your friends?” Betty seemed to have a fair few friends. She’d been hailed in the corridor between lessons by some girls.

“I’ll see them after school. We’re gonna go get hamburgers.”

“You don’t have to hang around with me. I’ll be okay.”

“Oh yeah, I know. My other friends don’t build robots, though.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “But it’s fine if you don’t want to! I know you didn’t ask to get landed with me.”

Bruce felt suddenly guilty that he’d made her feel unwanted. If he made her feel bad then she wouldn’t want to spend any time with him, and being with her was a little bit like being with Tony. It was… easy.

“No, I didn’t mean that, I – yeah, let’s get lunch.”

“Great! I’ve got music, so I’ll show you to Spanish on the way. I’ll meet you after?”

There were more mutterings around Bruce in his Spanish class. He gritted his teeth and kept his head down, forcing himself to ignore them. Surely they would get bored of it eventually and leave him alone. He sat behind a girl with the reddest hair he had ever seen, and concentrated on picking out the different shades until the whispers died away.

_The light hits her hair. Wavelengths of around 620-740 nanometers are reflected. They hit the retina of my eye, and the cones are stimulated, sending signals along the optic nerve to the visual cortex of my brain, which processes the information and tells me that her hair is red, red, red-_

_Blood on the sidewalk and on his hands-_

He screwed his eyes shut.

The Spanish teacher, Senor Bailey, didn’t ask Bruce to speak, nor did he draw attention to him in front of the whole class, for which he was grateful. When the bell rang, Bruce waited for most of the others to leave, slowly packing his bag to draw out the time.

Betty was waiting for him in the corridor, and she smiled when she saw him, showing the gap between her teeth.

“Bonjour,” she said.

“I was in Spanish. You mean, ‘Hola’.”

“Hola, then, if you’re going to be picky.” He fell into step beside her as they headed down the corridor. “Mrs Jeffries wants me to try out for the orchestra. Do you play an instrument?”

Bruce shook his head. He’d never been very interested in music, and he knew his dad wouldn’t have liked it. He thought artistic pursuits were worse than useless. “What do you play?” he asked, to stave off any further questions on those lines.

“Piano. I didn’t want to at first, but Dad wanted me to have different interests and be ‘well-rounded’ so he made me start lessons when I was about seven. I really like it now, though. It’s relaxing. And there’s something… logical, about piano.”

“Are you going to try out?”

“Probably. I’d like to, and Dad would want me to do it. If I get picked people will say it’s favouritism.”

“Why? Because the teacher likes you?”

“No. Because Dad’s the principal.” 

“Oh. Right.” He didn’t know what to say to that. 

“People think it must be horrible, living with the principal, but it’s okay, really. It just means he takes school really, _really_ seriously.”

“Lucky you’re smart, then.”

She pushed her hair behind her ear and beamed at him. “You think so?”

“Well. Yeah. You understood what I was saying about the robots. Most people don’t. People are usually stupid.”

“Aw no, they’re not. Just not everyone is scientific.”

Bruce shrugged. That was basically the same thing, to him.

They sat under a tree at the edge of the school field to eat their lunch. Jane, one of the home assistants, had made all the kids a bag lunch of sandwiches, an apple and a candy bar, apparently a treat for their first day. Usually they'd get free lunches in the cafeteria. The sandwiches were peanut butter and jelly, which Bruce hadn’t had since he was really young. 

Bruce couldn’t think of anything to say to Betty, though she didn’t look bothered by it. They ate in silence, and Bruce watched the other kids. Most of them hung around in chattering groups. He saw Henry and Mark with one group and cut his gaze away quickly. On the field there was a group of boys playing soccer, and he was surprised to see Steve amongst them. Steve hadn’t seemed the sporty type, but he looked like he was enjoying himself. The girl with the red hair was sat on the steps to the school with a blonde boy.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” Betty blurted out suddenly. Bruce turned to stare at her, and she looked appalled. “God, I’m sorry. I wanted to say it earlier but I didn’t really know how, but I didn’t want to just pretend everything was fine and that I didn’t know anything. I just – I don’t want to upset you or anything, I just – I’m sorry. It must be awful.”

Bruce wondered if he should feel upset, having the topic sprung on him so suddenly. He didn’t, though. “It’s okay,” he said. “Well. It’s not okay. But it’s okay that you said it. People have tip-toed around it ever since, like they’re pretending nothing happened.”

“I know,” she said earnestly. “I mean, it’s not quite the same but I mean… my mom’s dead, too.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Yeah. I was eight. She got sick. It was awful. I still miss her, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“I know it’s not the same but just… I know it’s horrible when people try to act like everything’s fine when really everything’s really miserable. I’m not going to tell you it gets better. It just gets… different.”

Bruce watched her for a moment. There was a worry line between her eyes, but the set of her mouth was determined. Strangely, her words lightened the weight in his chest that had become a constant presence over the past week. “Thanks, Betty. I – thanks.”

She smiled tentatively. He smiled back.

*

That evening, he told Doctor Skervin that he’d made a friend and she beamed as though he’d told her he’d won Olympic gold. 

“That’s excellent, Bruce. I’m very glad to hear it.”

Part of him wanted to tell Doctor Skervin about Betty, to tell her about the gap between her teeth and about how she understood science and thought robots were interesting and that she played piano and that her mom died too, but he didn’t. The biggest part of him wanted to keep Betty to himself, like a secret.

Doctor Skervin didn’t push him. Instead, she asked him whether his medication was still making him sleepy, and then about his run-in with Mark.

“He was being horrible to Laura. She was crying. I wanted him to stop.”

“Because he made Laura cry?”

“She was already crying because of what happened to Rachel. He made it worse. He called her names.”

“And you didn’t like that.”

Bruce shrugged. “It was mean.”

Doctor Skervin made a small note on her pad. Bruce twisted his hands together. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or not.

“David will be coming to see you on Thursday,” she said instead, and Bruce wondered whether he was going to be moved to another home because of the fight with Mark. “He’ll be here when you get back from school, okay?”

“Okay. What does he need to talk to me about?”

“I’ll have to leave that for him to tell you, Bruce.”

He picked at the knee of his jeans. “Can I go to see Tony on the weekend?” 

Doctor Skervin considered him. “You seem to have settled in fairly well,” she said slowly. “We’ll see how the rest of the week goes, but I don’t see why not. We can talk about it later in the week and organise when you can go and come back.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

There were a few moments of silence, and then Doctor Skervin spoke gently. “Bruce. These sessions are for you to talk about things that are troubling you, so we can help you.”

“I don’t want to.” Anyway, they _knew_ what was troubling him. It was pretty obvious.

She sighed. “Alright. Well, I’m here to listen any time you change your mind.”

*

_I am still waiting for news of the hot chick Banner_

_Her name is Betty. She was interested in the bots._

_BRUCE have you been giving away our scientific secrets because some girl batted her eyelashes at you? That is against the science code. Also what kind of name is Betty. Is she 70?_

_I don’t know about a code. I never signed anything._

_You signed on the dotted line of my SOUL when i let you into the lab and now you have BETRAYED ME_

_You’ll survive, Stark_

_Yeah I can survive anything even BETRAYAL by my most trusted sidekick_

_Why am I your sidekick?_

_Don’t play dumb Banner you know Im the hero of this show. Anyway are they letting you out into the big wide world on the weekend?_

_Think so. Thank fuck for that._

_Tell me about it. We can order ALL THE PIZZA and look at making that jetpack or maybe giving one of the bots laser shooters cuz mmm laser shooters_

_We should probably not blow the lab up again._

_You are no fun. You suck all the fun out of things. You know you like explosions._

_I do like explosions. Just don’t tell Jarvis._

_Jarvis doesnt care he only pretends to care. Dont worry so much. Im gonna go weld some shit together for shits and giggles LATERZ_

_See ya._

*

Lethargy had settled over Bruce by the evening, and he could not keep from yawning. He claimed his usual chair in the living room to read his book, but doubted that he'd be able to take anything in. He settled instead for surreptitiously watching Steve play chess against Jane, an assistant who worked some of the evening shifts. Jane wasn't a very good player and Steve was clearly holding back, but it was interesting to watch him. It was clear that he wanted Jane to improve, because he kept explaining things to her in his easy, friendly manner. Bruce had no idea why Steve was at Three Oaks, really – whatever shit was in his background, he was clearly perfectly well-adjusted. Surely a foster family would leap at the chance to look after a kid like Steve, with his amiable nature and his perfect manners.

If foster familiies didn't want _Steve_ , then what chance did Bruce have?

“See, you took my bishop here, but that meant you left your knight open for me to take here... and though it _looks_ like you should move your rook to counter that, that would leave your king unprotected. D'you see what I mean?”

“Yeah – man, you have to be a few steps ahead, don't you?”

“Yeah. It gets easier to see the patterns when you play a lot.” 

“When did you learn to play?”

“Oh. A guy who used to work here taught me and Bucky. It was a bit boring for Bucky, but I really liked it. I'd like to play in a tournament one day.”

“Well, I don't see why you shouldn't. Listen, Steve, this has been great but I'd best get on. We'll play again on Wednesday, yeah?”

“Oh yeah, no problem. Have a good evening, Jane.”

“And you, Steve.”

When Jane left, Steve and Bruce were the only ones in the room. Bruce stared hard at his book, hoping Steve didn't realise he'd been listening. He turned a page at random, to make the act look more authentic, but didn't read a word. There was no other noise beside the soft clicks of Steve moving chess pieces.

“Bruce? Would you like to play?”

Bruce jerked his head up. Steve had laid the board out and was smiling at him invitingly. He wanted Bruce to play. For a moment, Bruce wanted to play chess with Steve more than anything else. He could do it. He could get up, sit opposite Steve, move pieces around the board, look for lines of attack, calculate losses, predict Steve's strategy... it might even be fun.

Then, just as abruptly as the desire seized him, it vanished, leaving him feeling cold and sick. He couldn't look at Steve's open, warm face any more. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in a small, dark space and be left alone.

“No,” he said, his voice abrupt. “I'm tired. Gonna go to bed.” He knew he was being rude, knew it looked like he had a problem with Steve, but he didn't care.

“Oh. Okay, that's fine. First day back at school is a bit exhausting. Maybe another time?” Steve didn't even sound hurt, and Bruce _hated_ how good he was.

“Maybe,” he muttered. He stood up and left the room before Steve could say anything else, a hollow feeling in the centre of his stomach.


	6. Chapter 6

For the rest of the week, Bruce kept his head down and his mouth shut, both at school and around the other kids at Three Oaks. He knew how to make himself unobtrusive, how to shrink into the background. It had been a necessary skill at home, when Dad was in a mood. It had the desired effect: at Three Oaks, the other kids left him alone, and no one bothered talking to him at school. Probably the teachers didn't even remember his name.

Betty was his one exception at Sandworth. She sat with him in English and Physics, and she continued to be friendly and easy to talk to. She had lunch with him a couple of times more, and did look a little apologetic for the days she was with her friends instead. Bruce spent those lunchtimes in the library, looking over the science texts meant for the twelfth graders. It was depressingly easy.

Tony came to visit on Wednesday evening (during approved visiting hours, this time), and he didn't seem to mind that Bruce wasn't feeling very talkative. He talked enough for the pair of them, interpreting Bruce's short comments into something more than they were. Bruce felt a little guilty that, after missing Tony so much, he couldn't even bring himself to have a proper conversation with him.

He went to bed early that night, his head pounding. He dreamt about watching his mom make lasagne, and woke feeling miserable and unsettled. Grey light was visible through the crack in the (different, green) curtains, and he couldn't go back to sleep.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Betty asked for the tenth time later that morning. “You don't look well.”

“I'm _fine_ ,” he snapped. 

She blinked, and her expression cooled. “Okay,” she said simply. She turned back to her calculations in silence, and guilt squirmed in Bruce's chest. He knew he should apologise, but he wasn't sure how.

By the end of the day he had not managed to apologise to Betty, and his head was aching horribly again. He was hoping that he would be allowed to just go to bed when he got back to Three Oaks – he just wanted to crawl under the blankets and lie in the darkness for a while.

He had entirely forgotten about his meeting with David. As soon as he set foot inside the house he was ushered to Grace's office where David was sitting and flicking through his folder.

“Bruce! Come in, sit down. How are you?”

Bruce shrugged. “Fine.” He dumped his bag by the chair and slumped down in it. The pain in his head was now right behind his eyes.

“How's school going?”

Another shrug. “It's okay. The classes are boring.”

“Boring?”

“They're way too easy. The people there are stupid.” The miserable tension that had bubbled under the surface all day gave fuel to his anger. He clenched his fists.

“I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe you should tell your teachers if you're still finding it too easy in a couple of weeks? They might be able to give you some more difficult work.”

“Did you just come to ask how school was?”

David paused for a moment. “No,” he said gently. “I didn't. I came to talk to you about some other things.”

“What about?”

“About your mom.”

A heavy weight dropped into Bruce's chest. “Do I have to talk to the police again? I told them everything already. I don't have anything else to say.”

“No, it's not to do with the police, not this time. The court case is going to take a long time to come to trial.”

Bruce looked at his knees. His hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles were bleached white. “Is my dad definitely staying in prison until then?” 

“Yes, Bruce.”

“Is he okay?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. He hadn't even been aware of thinking it. David looked very slightly surprised.

“As far as I know, yes. He's... fine.” He paused. “Bruce, the investigation released your mother's body a few days ago. They no longer need it for evidence. The thing is... without any other family, or any money to pay for it, I'm afraid there is unlikely to be a funeral.”

A funeral. Bruce hadn't even _thought_ about that. Why hadn't he thought about that? Dead people had funerals. Lots of people gathered around to say goodbye and say prayers and be sad together. Not that there would be a lot of people at his mom's funeral. She had no family, and she'd stopped seeing all of her friends years and years ago. Dad had never liked her seeing friends, so she hadn't. There was just Bruce, and no one else.

She was gone, and only Bruce was left to care. 

“She's dead,” he said in a low voice. “She's dead. A funeral wouldn't change that.”

“I'm sure we could look into options for a memorial service, perhaps scattering her ashes,” said David in a gentle voice that Bruce hated. “I know it must be hard, Bruce. A memorial service would give you a chance to say goodbye.”

“But she'd still be _dead_ ,” Bruce snarled. “She's never coming back and I'll never actually get to say goodbye. I don't _want_ to.”

_”Bruce, get your coat – quick as you can –“_

_“Why? What's going on?”_

_“We need to leave. We should have left years ago – quickly, now-”_

His head was pounding and his nails dug so hard into his palms that he was sure he'd drawn blood. David was making reassuring noises, telling him that it was fine, that things could wait until he felt more able to talk, that he knew he was asking a lot, but Bruce barely heard any of it. His head was suddenly filled with those last minutes, of his mother's urgent, hushed voice telling him they were leaving, of his father's snarls and yells, her screams, his own panic as he shouted at Dad to _stop stop leave her alone_ , and then nothing...

“Bruce?” A hand touched his shoulder and Bruce flinched so hard he nearly fell off his chair. His breathing was too fast. “Easy there, take nice deep breaths. Here, sip this...” A glass of water was pressed into Bruce's hand and he drank it down, his hand shaking. “I know this is probably overwhelming for you, Bruce, and I'm truly sorry-”

“I've got a headache,” Bruce blurted. “I want to go to my room.” He needed to get away and _now_.

“Alright,” said David. “That's fine. I'll let Grace know you're not feeling well.”

Bruce nodded tightly, picking up his bag before he left. His room was blissfully quiet, and he flung open the window to let some air in. The cool breeze was soothing, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on the way it ruffled his hair. After some deep breaths he began to feel a little calmer, some of the tension bleeding out of his muscles.

It wasn't even dark outside, but he undressed and got into bed anyway. His eyes were itching with tiredness, but he lay awake and wondered what a memorial service for his mom would look like. People said nice things at memorial services. There was music and poetry. Flowers. Bruce had no idea what his mom would have liked, and that hot guilt squirmed in his stomach again. What sort of son didn't know what flowers his mom liked? And now he wouldn't ever get to ask her.

There was a soft rap at the door, and he closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. The floor creaked, and something was set on the bedside table. Bruce opened his eyes as the door snicked shut, catching a glimpse of Steve's retreating back. By his bed was a glass of water and two painkillers, which he swallowed gratefully.

Darkness was beginning to fall when he finally slipped into an uneasy sleep.

*

He had fully intended to apologise to Betty the next day, but she seemed to have forgotten all about his snapishness, and he couldn't bear to bring it up. Their work was complimented in Physics, which made her beam with delight. Bruce didn't care about the teacher's compliment (he _didn't_ ), but he liked that it made Betty happy. Her nose scrunched up when she really grinned. He just shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. 

The day was shaping up to be an improvement on the previous one until Mark and a group of boys passed Bruce and Betty in the corridor. Mark jostled Bruce's shoulder roughly and came to a halt.

“Watch it, freak,” he said. A couple of boys in his group laughed. Bruce froze, clenching his fists.

“Or you could not walk into people,” Betty snapped. “C'mon, Bruce-”

“Bet, do you have a _crush_ on the freak?” one of Mark's friends grinned. “He's crazy you know, like his old man.”

Bruce could feel blood pounding in his head. He was shaking. Betty's hand was gripping his elbow, trying to get him to move. The word _freak_ echoed around his mind, over and over and over.

“You're pathetic,” Betty said in a lofty voice. “Bruce, ignore them.”

“Watch out for yourself, Bet – he's dangerous, you know-”

Mist descended over Bruce's mind. It was... strangely pleasant. Calming. Shame and misery retreated in the face of the anger that burnt through his limbs and took over. He watched as he tore his arm from Betty's grip, as he seized Mark's shirt, as he slammed him up against the metal lockers, anything to make him shut the fuck up to stop talking stop stop stop-

“Bruce!” 

A hand touched his arm and he blinked. He stared at Mark's white face, at the way his shirt was crumpled in Bruce's hands.

“Bruce, stop, let him go!” It was Betty's hand on his arm. Slowly he unclenched his fists. He'd actually managed to lift Mark off the floor. The other boys around them seemed stunned – Bruce was much smaller than any of them.

“ _What_ is going on here?”

The voice bellowing down the corridor belonged to a tall, broad man with a bristling moustache. Bruce stepped quickly away from Mark, his stomach sinking to his feet. God, he hadn't even managed a _week_ without getting into trouble.

“This kid shoved Mark,” one of the boys volunteered. “Then he flipped and shoved him into the lockers.”

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah, Mr Ross,” Mark said, adjusting his shirt and glaring at Bruce. “I bumped into him, but it was an accident.”

Mr Ross. This was the principal. This was Betty's _dad_. Bruce wanted to disappear into the floor.

“Don't lie,” snapped Betty. “You pushed Bruce on purpose, and you said really nasty things to him. _And_ to me.”

“Whatever happened, fighting is _not_ allowed in school,” Mr Ross said. He looked at Bruce. “What's your name?”

“Bruce Banner,” he mumbled, looking at his shoes.

“Mr Banner, I am giving you a detention after school today. Consider it a warning – fighting will not be tolerated. Now get to class, all of you-” 

“But _Dad_ -”

“All of you!”

“It's fine,” Bruce muttered as Betty opened her mouth to argue. The other boys all left, looking gleeful. “Just leave it.”

“But it's not fair!” she exclaimed as they started down the corridor. “He started it, and said all those awful things!”

Bruce shrugged. “I don't want you to get in trouble with your dad.” The thought made his blood run cold. Betty fell quiet, biting her lip.

*

Bruce had been in plenty of detentions at Green Fields – it was a natural consequence of being in Tony's company – so being in trouble wasn't new to him. He wondered how Grace would react. At least, he thought, this time a detention wouldn't be met with a beating. 

Though this may have cost him his chance to see Tony.

He sat at a desk at the edge of the classroom, a few rows ahead of another boy who was the only other student there. A teacher he didn't recognise was sat at the front, marking some exercise books. A sign on the wall declared that all students must remain silent until they were told to leave.

Bruce buried himself in his Calculus homework. It was easy, of course, almost embarassingly so, but it at least kept him occupied. After a few minutes, something hit him on the back of the head. He turned and glared at the other kid, who held up his hands in mock innocence. He was leaning back on his chair, and he smirked as he scrunched up another piece of paper and flicked it expertly. It bounced off Bruce's nose. Bruce scowled, and the kid rolled his eyes, yawning in an exaggerated fashion.

“Mr Barton, at least pretend to be doing something productive,” said the teacher at the front. The kid let his chair drop onto all four legs with a thump.

“Your wish is my command, sir,” he said. The teacher gave him a weary glare before turning back to his marking. Bruce returned to Calculus, until a paper airplane zipped over his shoulder to land expertly on his desk. There was writing on it, so Bruce unfolded it.

_Wassup new kid. Welcome to party town. I'm Clint._

Bruce had no idea if he was supposed to reply. He couldn't make paper airplanes that would go where they were supposed to, and the teacher would definitely notice and get annoyed if he started passing messages with this Clint kid.

Another plane landed on his desk. It simply proclaimed _BORED_ , and had a rough three by three grid beneath it. An x was drawn in the top centre box. Bruce squinted at it for a moment, then realised it was meant to be tic-tac-toe. He hesitated for a moment, and then scrawled a circle into a box. He folded the plane as best he could, following Clint's creases, and threw it back. He misjudged his aim, but Clint's hand shot out and caught it, a grin on his face.

The teacher supervising them clearly didn't care what they did. Bruce suspected he really just wanted to go home after the first week of school, and was feigning ignorance over the paper airplane shooting back and forth. Anyway, at least they were being quiet.

Bruce won two games out of three, and by the end of the hour he felt, weirdly, as though he'd made another friend. When they were dismissed, Clint hung around by his desk and waited for him. 

“So what did you do?” Clint asked without preamble when they were in the corridor. “To get put into the party shack.”

“Um. I shoved a kid against a locker.”

“Why?”

“He shoved me first. What did you do?”

“I was on the roof.”

“Why?”

Clint grinned. “I like the roof. I used to climb the trees but they're all boring now. They don't normally catch me – guess I'm out of practice.”

“What do you do up there?”

“Not much. Look around. Sunbathe. Jerk off.”

Bruce didn't know if he should laugh or not, so he didn't. After a moment, Clint started giggling. “Oh man, you totally bought that,” he said gleefully. “As if I'd jerk off at school. I'd get a disease. No thanks.”

Outside school, Clint sat himself on the wall and pulled a pack of gum out of his pocket. Bruce leant against the wall a little awkwardly – apparently someone from Three Oaks would drive by to pick him up, and his stomach was squirming with nerves.

“What's your name, dude?”

“Bruce.”

“Cool name,” Clint said easily. Bruce had honestly never thought about it. 

After a moment of silence, Clint spoke again. “Is it true you saw your dad kill your mom?” 

Bruce looked up at him. Clint's face was open and frank, though his eyes were a little wary. Bruce supposed he should be offended, but the honesty of the question was actually a little refreshing. “Yeah.”

“Shit, man. That's rough. Want some gum?” 

“Uh, sure. Thanks.”

“So where are you living now?”

“Um. Three Oaks.”

“The group home?” Clint gave him a grin. “I was there for a while.”

“You... you were?”

“Yeah, man. Me and my brother, we ran away from the circus. Ended up there. We got, y'know, adopted or whatever, about five years back. It's alright there though. Could be worse, anyway.”

“I s'pose.” Bruce suspected that the circus was another joke.

“They like to be all nicey nicey to you, don't you think? Like, if they act all sweet-as-pie they reckon you'll forget all the crap that's happened.”

“Yeah, it is a bit like that.”

“They hated Barney. He was a total dick. Think they were glad to be rid of us.”

“How long were you there before you got... adopted?”

“A year? Maybe a bit more. It's pretty good, mostly. Better than the circus, and definitely better than my old man.”

At that moment, an extremely loud, battered car pulled up at the curb, blaring music. The young man driving had his arm dangling out of the window, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers.

“Alrigh' Clint?” he called.

“And here's Barney with my ride,” said Clint, jumping off the wall. “See you around, Bruce.”

“Bye,” said Bruce. He watched as Clint got into the car, was punched fondly on the shoulder by his brother, and disappeared. He liked Clint, he decided. He was brash and open and he reminded Bruce forcibly of Tony. Maybe one day Clint would let him climb up on the roof too, to see what it was like.

And he'd left Three Oaks. He'd got out. And if he had, then maybe Bruce could too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description of drug use (marijuana) in this chapter.

To Bruce's shock, there hadn't been a huge amount of trouble waiting for him when he arrived back at Three Oaks. Grace had called him and Mark into her office to talk about what had happened, and had warned them that any more incidents would result in further steps being taken before making them apologise to one another, but that had been that. Slightly stunned, Bruce had run into Steve in the corridor and agreed to help him shut the chickens up for the night.

“Everyone knows Mark's a bully,” Steve had said as he picked up an errant bird, which squawked unhappily. His voice had a new edge to it. “You stood up to him the other day, and people don't usually do that. Grace knows what he's like, she'll know it was him that started it at school.”

“You believe me, then?” Bruce had asked, startled.

“Well, yeah. You're pretty quiet and you don't really bother anyone. Why would you pick a fight with Mark for no reason?”

Bruce hadn't really had an answer for that.

And now it was Saturday morning, and he was kicking his heels at the bottom of the Three Oaks driveway, waiting for Tony to pick him up. He had thought that this visit would have been cancelled in wake of his fight with Mark, but nobody had said anything about it. Bruce's stomach was tying itself into nervous knots, and he had no idea why; he'd been to Tony's countless times, spent so many weekends and evenings there, both just to hang out and as an escape from his dad's temper and his fists. Tony hadn't treated him any differently since everything had happened – in fact, he'd been very deliberate in treating Bruce the same as always. There was no reason to think that this visit to Tony's house, which he had been yearning for all week, would be any different to the others. 

Before he could dwell for too long on that increasingly negative thought process, an expensive, gleaming car pulled up beside him. Tony rolled down the back window and grinned at him. “Taxi for Bruce Banner?”

“I was expecting you ten minutes ago,” Bruce deadpanned. “Don't expect a tip.”

Tony laughed, opening the door. “In, Big Guy. Hop it.”

The ride to Stark Mansion didn't take long, but Tony's constant jabber about whatever caught his fancy set Bruce's mind at ease. The squirming in his stomach diminished, and he let out a long breath of relief.

“Am I boring you, Banner?” Tony quirked an eyebrow at him.

“You always bore me.”

Tony smacked him on the shoulder. “You are such a bitch.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Oh, burn. I'm so hurt.”

Stark Mansion was exactly the same as ever: huge, ostentatious, and empty. Their faceless, nameless driver dropped them at the front doors, and Tony immediately led the way down to the huge lab in the basement. The place had two sections, divided by the enormous staircase. On one side was Howard's lab, barely used since he spent so much of his time in New York, and on the other was one designated for Tony. It had been a present for Tony's twelfth birthday.

Bruce had had a microscope for his twelfth birthday. And a broken arm.

“Okay,” said Tony, throwing himself into a chair in front of one of the monitors. “I fiddled with the bot's schematics last night, so see what you think.”

Bruce sat beside Tony and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Huh. You weren't kidding about the laser shooters.”

“Hell no! Why would I have been kidding?”

“They're kinda... y'know. Shitty villain-of-the-week type thing.”

“Pssht, whatever man. I wouldn't be villain-of-the-week. I'd be a _super villain_. End of level boss. End of _game_ boss.”

“Not with laser shooters.”

“What's your idea then, genius?”

Bruce considered. He looked over the schematics again, biting his lip, and Tony watched him in silence. Eventually, he sat up.

“We don't have to get rid of the lasers,” he said, “but if we just build this, we're gonna run into problems with blooming.”

“Yeah, I know, so I was gonna go with multiple lasers centred on-”

“Well, why not make it an electrolaser instead? Use the blooming to our advantage?”

A slow smile spread across Tony's face. “ _Lightning_ lasers. Fucking _awesome_.”

It felt amazing to be absorbed in a project again. Every single miserable occurrence of the last two weeks seemed to retreat into the back of Bruce's mind. For three hours he didn't once close his eyes to see flashes of blood, or hear his father's furious voice. Instead, his head was full of electric currents and ionised plasma channels, of Tony's gleeful exclamations and his horrendously loud music. It was the happiest Bruce had been in _weeks_.

Eventually they broke for lunch. Tony ordered in pizza and grabbed cans of Coke from the lab fridge. He threw one at Bruce and slumped down on the couch, popping the cap and taking a slurp. Bruce perched on the other sofa and fiddled with the top of his can, his mind buzzing contentedly and his ears ringing in the echoing silence left in the wake of Tony's music.

“So,” said Tony, pointing at him from where he was sprawled across an entire couch. “Spill.”

“Spill?” Bruce frowned, finally opening his drink and taking a sip.

“The _girl_ , Bruce. Whatshername, Betty? Spill. Is she hot? Have you hit that yet?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. He and Tony had, admittedly, spent many hours discussing the relative hotness of girls at school (well, Tony had; Bruce had joined in awkwardly), but it felt somehow wrong to talk about Betty in that way. He liked Betty and she was kind to him, and he didn't really want to hear Tony talk about her in the brazen way he tended to with other girls. 

“Okay, so that's a no on the last question. There's time, Brucey-kins, there's time. C'mon man, gimme something to work with here.”

“She's really nice, Tony. We work together in Physics.”

“Bor- _ring_! Ugh, you are so shit at this.” Tony reached for a laptop on the table between them and flipped it open. “What's her surname? She's the principal's kid, right?”

“Yeah, what are you -”

“Betty _Ross_. Ah hah, Facebook, you beauty.”

“Tony!” Annoyance crackled under Bruce's skin.

“Huh, she's not bad, I guess.”

“'Not bad'?” Bruce echoed. Betty was prettier than the girls Bruce had seen at Green Fields.

Tony looked up from the laptop, and Bruce suddenly realised he'd said that last part out loud. “Oh man,” he said, grinning. “Bruce, you have a crush!”

“What? No I don't!”

“You so do! Oh, you're all grown up! We should celebrate!” 

“Shut the fuck up, Stark.” There was a strange note in Tony's voice that set Bruce's nerves on edge. He tightened his grip on the Coke can, which dented slightly beneath his fingers.

“Dude, _chillax_ ,” Tony said, his voice back to normal. “Your secret is safe with me.” He drew a cross over his heart with one finger, and Bruce relaxed a little. “Oh man, I have to show you this new kid at school – he's from fuckin' Norway or some shit and he is just... he's something else, man. His arm is the width of my _entire body_ and he is the loudest motherfucker I have ever met- here-”

Tony brought up a Facebook page and spun the laptop to face Bruce. The blond kid in the profile picture had the most enormous shoulders, matched by his enormous grin. Bruce felt skinny and weak just looking at his photo.

“Torvald Odinsson? Cool name.”

“A _seriously_ cool name. But it gets cooler – everyone calls him 'Thor', like the God of Thunder, y'know?”

“So he just moved to the US?”

“Yup. His English is pretty good but he's all old-fashioned. When we left school yesterday he gave me a pat on the back that I am pretty sure cracked some ribs and said, _We shall meet next week, Friend Tony!_ I mean, seriously, 'friend Tony'. It's badass.”

“It's definitely an unusual nickname for you,” Bruce agreed. “I think I'll stick with 'arrogant dick', if that's okay.”

“Such a bitch.” Tony shook his head. “You'll never get into Miss Ross' panties with that kind of language.”

Bruce threw the empty Coke can at his head.

*

After a lunch of several greasy pizzas brought down to the lab by Jarvis (who asked after Bruce with far too much worry on his thin face – Bruce felt quite creeped out by having caused an emotion beyond wry sarcasm in Jarvis), Tony and Bruce went to Tony's room. Well, suite. Bruce wasn't sure he would ever get used to the fact that Tony's room was as big as Bruce's house.

Old house, anyway.

“Pick a game for me to beat you at,” Tony said, so Bruce set up Worms 2 on the X Box as Tony rummaged around underneath his bed. “Oh,” he said, dropping onto the sofa beside Bruce with a small, familiar tin in his hand. “Your team stats are way down. Jarvis played 'em.”

“You let Jarvis play my worms?”

Tony shrugged, opening the tin and taking out a bag of weed and some papers. “He wanted to play, you had a team set up.” He set about rolling a joint, his fingers nimble and quick. Once he had twisted off the end he flicked open the lighter and took a drag, then passed it to Bruce with a grin. 

Bruce closed his eyes as he drew on the joint, feeling the sense of calm the drug afforded him already beginning to curl through his limbs. This was something of a ritual for them: they would play video games and pass joints back and forth, becoming more and more loose-limbed and giggly as the day drew on, until eventually they would slump on the sofa talking absolute nonsense. It was comforting and normal.

Tony beat Bruce in a few games of Worms, after which Bruce beat Tony at MarioKart. Tony immediately accused Bruce of cheating and hit him with a cushion. This soon devolved into a short, vicious cushion war, which only ended when Tony sat on all of the cushions. 

“I am the victor!” he crowed, throwing his arms in the air.

“Yes, yes, congratulations,” Bruce said, retrieving his glasses from where they'd been knocked on the floor. “A great achievement.”

“You're such a poor loser, Banner.”

“I still won the race,” Bruce pointed out. He picked up the tin and began rolling another joint. His broad hands didn't have the natural dexterity of Tony's slim, clever fingers, but he managed to roll a passable spliff. As he worked, Tony let himself slump from the pile of cushions onto the couch, the top of his head against Bruce's hip. They passed the joint back and forth in silence and Bruce closed his eyes, trying to find the calm from before.

“Bruce,” Tony said suddenly, his tone urgent. “Bruce.”

“What?”

“I want to fix this.”

“Well pick the fucking cushions up, then.”

“The – no, not _that. This._.” Tony waved his hand in vague emphasis, and Bruce snatched the joint from between his fingers. “All this fucking shit. I want to fix it for you.”

Bruce was silent for a moment. “You can't,” he said eventually.

“There must be something. There's always something. This isn't fair.”

Anger stirred in Bruce's gut. Did Tony not think he'd have _done_ something if there was something to be done? “Maybe when you can build a time machine,” he snapped.

“That's not enough,” Tony countered. “If I could go back in time and stop your mom being _murdered_ then I would, but that wouldn't have stopped everything else, would it? That wouldn't have stopped you turning up at school with giant fucking bruises or fucking cracked ribs every other fucking day-”

“Shut up.”

“Tell me how to help, Bruce.”

“You _can't_ ,” Bruce snarled. He stabbed the joint out on the lid of the tin, his breathing harsh and ragged. His hands were shaking. Tony was still lying on his back, his head still against Bruce's thigh. One slim hand reached up, caught Bruce's wrist. Tony was even more tactile when he was high.

“I'll think of something,” Tony said.

“No you won't.”

“No.” Tony's tone was miserable. Bruce wrenched his hand from Tony's grip and stood, pacing the room helplessly. He felt trapped, his skin tight, anxiety bubbling through his veins. His thoughts were frantic, leaping from point to point too fast for him to even keep up. He twisted his hands together as he paced, taking in great sucking breaths and trying to stop himself crying or screaming or breaking something. Fucking Tony, always thinking he could fucking fix things, thinking that he could throw money or distractions at things until they went away.

“Bruce,” Tony said plaintively. “Bruce, man, I'm sorry. I'm a total shithead. Stop it, you're making me dizzy.”

Bruce stopped, tried to breathe in deeply. He clenched and unclenched his fists, then dropped to the floor by the couch.

“You can't fix this,” he muttered again.

“I hate it.”

“Yeah.”

Silence fell. Tony switched the TV from their game and put on an episode of _Star Trek_ that they'd both seen countless times. Bruce took shaky breaths in and out and kept his eyes closed, letting the familiar dialogue wash over him. Tony's hand landed in Bruce's hair, fingers scratching lightly at his scalp. Usually Bruce would tell him to fuck off, but he didn't have the energy to protest. His nerves felt like they were fizzing with an electric current, but the regular motion of Tony's fingers was strangely calming.

Tony fell asleep halfway through the next episode. His hand fell from Bruce's head and he began to snore. Bruce considered poking him awake, but thought better of it. He drew his knees up to his chest and pulled his sleeves down over his hands. He was starting to come down from his high, and the edginess was beginning to subside, leaving a strange, blank exhaustion in its place. He had almost drifted off himself when a tap at the door startled him.

“Apologies, Master Banner,” Jarvis said, looking at him in concern, “but the car will be ready in five minutes to take you to Three Oaks.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks, Jarvis.” Right. Yeah. He had to be back by ten. As Jarvis shut the door, Bruce poked Tony in the head. “Hey. Sleeping beauty.”

Tony groaned as he stirred. “Y'think I'm beautiful, Brucey?” he mumbled.

“Yeah, the drool really adds to the look.”

Tony squinted at him. “What's with the rude awakening?”

“I've gotta go.”

“What, seriously? Ugh. Right, fine, gimme a sec-”

“You don't have to come. I'm okay getting the car by myself.”

“Whatever man, I need some. Y'know. Stuff from outside. Fresh air. Fuck, you stink of weed.”

“Shit. That won't go down well.”

“S'okay, you can borrow some clothes.” Tony sat up and pointed in the direction of his closet. “Go. Take clothes. Leave the vintage rock shirts, they're off-limits.”

They didn't talk much on the car ride back to Three Oaks. Tony put the window down, and the cool night air was refreshing. Their earlier argument sat between them, but Bruce didn't have the first idea how to bring it up; he hoped that they could just forget about it and carry on as normal. 

“Ciao for now, Big Guy,” Tony said easily as Bruce clambered out of the car ten minutes later. “Keep in touch.”

“Yeah. See you later.”

Tony raised a hand in farewell, and the car rolled away. Bruce watched it out of sight, a tight knot in the pit of his stomach.


	8. Chapter 8

Bruce began to have trouble sleeping. He was constantly tired - a natural consequence of taking what amounted to sedation pills - but he still woke several times a night, clawing his way out of nightmares in which his father loomed, huge and furious. At first he tried to keep himself awake as long as possible, frightened of what lurked behind his eyes every time he dropped off, but he inevitably succumbed to sleep eventually. So he tried to keep busy, to keep his mind focused on other things, in the hope that the nightmares would begin to abate.

I was easy to stay busy, and even though he no longer had to dedicate his energy to surviving his father’s temper, to regulating every movement, every word, he still never seemed to stop and it left him very tired. There was school, of course, and with it the homework and the assigned reading. Three of his evenings were taken up with Three Oaks' activities (group counselling, individual counselling with Dr Skervin, even goddamn anger management therapy which was the biggest joke ever), and Tony always came over for Wednesday visiting hours. By the end of the day Bruce just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week, but he tried to stop himself dropping off. He just lay and stared at the ceiling and forced his mind to go over equations and number sequences and chemical theories so it wouldn’t slip into the darkness and blood that always lingered at the edge of his thoughts. He wasn’t always successful.

Both Doctor Skervin and Grace noticed his tiredness, but he told them he was sleeping fine. He didn’t really know why he pushed their concern away, but he knew that listening to it made him grit his teeth. Betty would always peer worriedly at him as well and ask how he was feeling.

“I’m just tired, that’s all,” he said, not looking at her as he carefully finished setting up their circuit for an investigation on electromagnetic shielding.

Betty grimaced sympathetically. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

“I couldn’t, for weeks after mom died. I wanted to, because then I wouldn’t think about it all the time, but I just lay awake and stared at the ceiling. I must’ve read about ten novels in a week just to try and distract myself.”

Bruce glanced at her. He hadn’t told her the whole truth, but he always got the feeling that Betty understood a little more than any of the adults at Three Oaks would. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s a lot of it. D’you want to tune the radio?”

At lunchtime Betty disappeared with a couple of her friends. She always left with a smile and a, “See you later, Bruce!” whilst her friends giggled and glanced at him sidelong. He knew that they thought he was a freak and that Betty was wasting her time hanging out with him. Bruce didn’t like them, but he wasn’t sure that they were wrong.

Resigning himself to another lunchtime trying to find something of interest in the library, Bruce turned and nearly walked straight into another kid.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not looking up. The kid grabbed his arm as he tried to walk away and Bruce froze.

“Dude!” said the kid. “Don’t run off!”

Bruce blinked, and realised that it was the kid from detention. Clint. He was with the girl with red hair from Bruce’s Spanish class, and her face was as stony as Clint’s was grinning. Bruce wondered if she was Clint’s girlfriend.

“Oh,” Bruce said. “Hi.”

“Wanna come for lunch with us?” Clint asked, throwing a companionable arm around Bruce’s shoulders. Bruce stiffened at the contact; he didn’t like people touching him, unless it was Tony. And that was only because Tony had worn him down with years of being utterly insufferable.

Still. He’d liked Clint. Maybe it would be okay. “Uh, sure.”

“Great! This is Natasha. I told her you were a badass at tic-tac-toe.”

“Natalya,” the girl said in a slightly frosty voice. “Natasha is for friends.” Bruce couldn’t quite place her accent. Eastern European, maybe.

“Natalya,” he agreed, following them towards the cafeteria. “I’m Bruce.”

She gave him a hard look. “Yes. Clint say.”

“So you’re buddies with Betty Ross?” Clint said, elbowing Bruce lightly. “Not bad, man. Wouldn’t kick her out of bed.”

Bruce felt his face heat. He thought Betty was pretty, but he didn’t like Clint talking about her like that. Before he could work out a response, however, Natalya cut in, poking Clint hard in the side. 

“You will never have girlfriend,” she told him. “Not if you speak of girls like this. You show respect, or I kick you. In sensitive place.”

“Aw, c’mon Tash-”

“ _Sensitive_ place,” she repeated firmly, and Clint threw up his hands in surrender. 

“Alright, alright. I was just sayin’. No harm done.”

Natalya snorted, and looked over at Bruce. “I try to tell him, but he still think women just for looking at.”

“You’re teaching me differently, Tasha. Cross my heart, I am mending my ways.”

Bruce couldn’t help but smile at the dubious look Natalya threw him. “It is like training dog,” she said flatly. 

“Maybe you should give him treats,” Bruce suggested, and something close to a smile flickered over her face. 

“Yes. When he do good things, I give him one.”

“Hey, if I’m gettin’ candy out of this arrangement I’m not gonna complain,” Clint said easily. 

Lunch retrieved, Bruce followed Clint and Natalya out into the yard. He felt a little disappointed when there was no roof climbing, though he noticed Mr McCoy, the huge chemistry teacher, looking over at them, so perhaps it was for the best. Instead, they led Bruce across the school field to a patch of scrubby bushes which formed a rough shelter from the view of the rest of the school. It was clearly a regular hideout, as the undergrowth was trampled down and cigarette butts littered the ground. 

Bruce felt a little awkward, as though he were intruding into their privacy. Clint threw himself onto the ground and stuffed half his hamburger into his mouth. Natalya was a little neater in the way she sat, and she watched Bruce carefully as she nibbled at her burger.

“Sit,” she told Bruce firmly, and his legs seemed to fold under him of their own accord. Clint tossed a grin in his direction.

“Tasha’s a foster kid too,” he told Bruce. “We should have a club. Get T-shirts.”

Natalya scowled at him, and Bruce suspected she hadn’t particularly wanted her private business bandied about. 

“Aw, c’mon Tash. Bruce is in the same boat, he knows how shitty it is. All for one and all that.”

Natalya frowned. “All what?” she asked.

“It’s a quote. ‘All for one and one for all!’ Three musketeers? No? Okay, that’s going on the list.”

“I am excited already,” Natalya deadpanned, taking another bite from her burger.

“As you should be,” Clint retorted. He turned to Bruce. “I’ve been taking charge of her cultural education. I dunno if it’s just that she’s been under a rock or if it’s Russians in general, but she’s never seen _anything_.”

“I’ve never seen the Three Musketeers either.”

Clint put a hand to his chest dramatically. “I am surrounded by idiots,” he complained.

“You are idiot,” Natalya told him. Clint smirked at her and stole her hamburger. She kicked at him but seemed otherwise unconcerned. 

Clint began to explain the Three Musketeers to her in excited detail (“The best one is D’Artagnan, he’s just badass. He’s like me, only a musketeer.” Natalya had shaken her head, looking resigned), and Bruce was content to sit back and listen to them. Clint waved his arms around a lot as he spoke, his hands as much a part of his description as his words. Bruce was, again, reminded forcibly of Tony. Natalya sat very still with her knees pulled up to her chest, her expression distantly amused. 

When Clint turned his head, Bruce caught a glimpse of something tucked behind his ear, and he realised it was a hearing aid. Clint must have caught the direction of his gaze, because he smirked and tapped his ear.

“Can’t hear a fucking thing without this,” he said. “Got sick as a kid, lost my hearing. This helps, and I’m a fucking badass lip-reader. Tash and me, we’re learning sign language. It’s really cool, like code.”

“Is interesting,” Natalya agreed. “My sign is better than my English.”

“Your English is good,” Bruce said awkwardly.

“Hell yeah it is,” Clint agreed. “Way better than my Russian.”

Natalya’s lip quirked. “Your Russian _horrible_.”

“Yup.” Clint seemed unconcerned by this. “It’s the alphabet, man. I can’t even get the English one straight in my head.”

Natalya snorted. “You do not try.”

“Yeah, I just _love_ remedial English classes. Me and Frosty have a great time. She’s got a crush on me,” he added in an undertone to Bruce, who couldn’t help but grin. Miss Frost lived up to her name.

“Women do not _crush_ on you,” Natalya said dismissively. “Maybe they want to crush you. Under their shoes.”

“You wound me, Tash. See what I put up with, Bruce? You wouldn’t bully me like this. Maybe I’ll make you my best friend instead.”

“You say this. You will come back to me.” 

Clint grinned, but his face fell when the bell rang in the distance to signal the end of lunch. “Ugh no, don’t make me go to class,” he groaned. “I don’t _wanna_ go to Geometry.”

“Geometry is okay,” Bruce said, standing up and dusting off his pants. 

Clint glared at him. “You’re _weird_.”

Bruce shrugged. Clint gave a put-upon sigh and held out his hand to Natalya, who rolled her eyes and pulled him to his feet with surprising strength. “You comin’ round tonight, Tash?”

She shook her head, red curls bouncing. “Ballet.”

“Ugh, you always have ballet.”

“I am good at ballet.” Bruce imagined that that was true. She was tiny and graceful, and every movement of her slim frame was perfectly controlled. 

“Fine, whatever. What about you, Bruce? Wanna come watch a movie? Or have they got fun group sessions planned for you?”

Bruce was startled at the invite. People didn’t invite him round to their houses. Not unless they were Tony, who had always been unusual.

“Sorry,” he said. “I can’t.”

“Ah, it’s cool. Another time, maybe. Both of you – you’re not going to get away without watching the Three Musketeers.”

“Another time,” Bruce agreed. He glanced at Natalya, unsure how she was taking Clint pulling him in; they were clearly very close. Her eyes were unreadable, though her lips quirked in a brief smile.

“Yes,” she said. “Another time.”

In between Calculus and Chemistry, Bruce ducked into the library and soon found what he was looking for. Mr McCoy was not impressed when he appeared late for class, but Bruce didn’t much care.

That night, when sleep once again failed to come, he pulled out the first of the two books he had checked out. It was difficult when he was so tired, but he’d always found languages quite easy to pick up. Russian felt strange on his tongue as he murmured the words to himself, faltering over the pronunciation as he squinted at the strange Cyrillic letters. By the time the grey light of dawn tinged the edges of his curtains, he’d picked up a few phrases and, most importantly, his thoughts hadn’t once strayed down any unwelcome paths.


	9. Chapter 9

“Bruce, this is Ms Munroe.” 

Ms Munroe was one of the most striking people Bruce had ever seen: she was a tall, slender black woman, and though her hair was startlingly white her face was youthful and unlined. 

“It’s lovely to meet you Bruce,” she said in a low, soothing voice. “Call me Ororo.” 

“Hi,” Bruce mumbled. Her hand was cool to the touch, and her perfume had the strange ozone smell he associated with a passing storm.

“Would you like some coffee, Ororo?” David asked. “Or tea?”

“Oh, tea would be lovely. Will you have some Bruce?”

“Um. Sure.” Bruce sat down hesitantly and tried not to stare as Ororo sat and crossed her slim legs, her skirt riding up a little as her tights whispered together. His face heated and he looked away quickly, hoping she hadn’t noticed.

“I’m a family solicitor, Bruce,” Ororo said, balancing a folder on her lap and clasping her hands neatly on top of it. Her fingernails were flawlessly painted. “I’ll be representing you in the hearing regarding the termination of your father’s parental rights. I don’t have anything at all to do with his criminal trial.”

Bruce nodded, dropping his gaze and staring at her feet. Her heels were improbably high. His mom had hardly ever worn heels, preferring worn, comfortable shoes. Then, his mom was – had been – nowhere near as glamorous as Ororo. David brought the tea over to them and Bruce clutched his mug as hard as possible, even though it burnt his palms.

“I know this is very difficult for you, Bruce,” Ororo continued. “In court you’re going to be asked a lot of questions that you might find upsetting. Everybody in there will understand that they’re asking a lot of you. All we need you to do is to be as honest as you can, okay?”

Bruce nodded miserably. 

“I’ll be asking you some questions first, and then your father’s attorney will ask some as well. If it gets a bit much for you, we can take a break. You will be asked about whether your father ever hurt you, or your mother.”

Bruce clutched his tea harder. His hands were trembling, and some of the hot liquid spilled onto his knee. He had never spoken to anybody about what had gone on. He’d never told anyone about the beatings, about the punches and kicks, about the cane and the belt, about being locked in the closet, or being made to stay outside all night. He’d become adept at hiding his injuries and making up excuses. He’d come close, once, when Tony had confronted him about it, but he’d held back. He hadn’t even told the police in his statement. He wasn’t sure he could do it – could he stand up in court and tell a group of strangers the truth, with his dad watching his every move?

“We’ll work out what you can say before next week, okay? You, me and David.” She hesitated for a moment. “The hearing won’t take very long. It’s almost certain that your father’s parental rights will be terminated, considering his murder charge. I don’t think he plans to contest the termination.”

“He – he doesn’t?” Bruce wasn’t sure how he felt about that. After all that his father had done, after all those years of living in fear of him, Bruce could not imagine going back to live in his shadow. The thought made icy fear tighten around his heart. It was good that his father might not contest having his parental rights removed.

So why did it feel so much like abandonment?

_He never wanted you,_ sneered the voice in the back of Bruce’s head. _You were an accident, a mistake. You’re a freak who should never have been born. If it weren’t for you, he’d never have killed her._

Ororo was talking, but Bruce could barely hear her. The voice had started to sound so much like his dad.

_Don’t you dare tell anyone what goes on here. You hear me, Bruce? They find out, they’ll take you to a children’s home, and you don’t want that. You think this is bad, just you wait til you see what they do to kids there-_

“Bruce?” 

He blinked, hard. David and Ororo were both looking at him in concern.

“I’m okay,” he mumbled. “Sorry.” 

Ororo leaned forward. “Bruce, I promise that we will do everything we can to help you with this. I’ve dealt with a lot of cases like yours, and I know how distressing it can be. But we are on your side, and we will make sure you are as prepared as you can possibly be.”

“After – if he – if he can’t be my dad any more… will I come back here?”

David nodded. “Yes, you’ll stay at Three Oaks. But if it’s the case that your dad’s rights are terminated, then we can begin the process to find you a permanent foster family.”

Bruce’s stomach twisted at that. Three Oaks was bad enough, but going into someone’s _house_ , where they would try and be _parents_ to him…

“I don’t want other parents,” he mumbled.

“They wouldn’t be your parents if you didn’t want to see them that way,” David replied. “They would be adults – good, kind, responsible adults – who would support you and care for you. They wouldn’t be there to replace your birth parents.”

Suddenly, shamefully, Bruce’s throat felt tight with unshed tears, and a fierce, desperate longing rose in his chest. He didn’t want other adults, however good or kind they were. He wanted his mom.

He hated himself for the threatened tears. Hated how his chest felt hot and tight, hated how his hands were shaking, hated everything about it. 

He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, gritting his teeth, anger and misery and grief simmering underneath the surface in a confused, tangled mess. 

“You’re okay,” murmured Ororo in her calm, steady voice. “You’re okay, Bruce. It’s alright to be angry.”

“I hate this,” he bit out. “All of it.”

“I know you do. Anybody would. But you will be okay – it might take a long while, but you will be. And you will be okay next week.”

She spoke with such cool confidence. The tight feeling in Bruce’s chest loosened a little and he took a shaky breath. He nodded.

“Okay,” he mumbled. “Okay.”

*

The nightmares were bad, that night. He watched helplessly as his father, grown to improbable size and strength, smashed his mom into the ground over and over and over again.

He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t stop it. He could only watch. 

His father turned to him and smiled.

Everything went red.

*

“You’re really quiet today,” Betty said. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look ill.”

“I’m okay.”

She bit her lip and looped her dark hair behind her ear, a gesture that had started to make his stomach flutter in a way he ruthlessly ignored. “You know,” she said, her voice tentative but determined, “sometimes it helps to talk to people about things that are bothering you. It might not seem like it, but it does.”

Bruce was shaking. He set his pen down and pushed away his half-finished write-up. “Don’t,” he said in a low voice.

“I just want to help, Bruce-“

“ _Don’t_ ,” he snarled, his heart hammering in his ears. Everything suddenly seemed very far away, and Betty looked shocked by his tone. “Stop trying to help, stop trying to make me talk about things. You think you know what this is like but you’ve got _no fucking clue_.”

Betty was white-faced, but she drew herself up, her mouth set. “There’s no need to be like that,” she said in a fierce whisper. “I’m trying to be nice. It’s no wonder no one wants to talk to you, you know.”

That stung, and something savage reared in Bruce’s chest. “Just leave me the fuck alone,” he snapped. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Betty tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Fine,” she said coldly. “Whatever.” She moved to the edge of their shared desk and bent over her work, her face stony and expressionless. Bruce’s hands were shaking as he tried to complete his write-up, but he could barely think past the howling anger in his head. She was constantly at him, badgering him for answers, wanting to know what was going on with him, why couldn’t she give him some fucking privacy? She thought she knew everything, but she knew _nothing_.

When the bell rang, Betty packed her bag at record speed and stalked out of the room. Bruce didn’t care. He didn’t care about any of it. His eyes itched with tiredness and he’d made mistakes in Physics – he _never_ made mistakes in Physics – and he had to talk to Ororo about the hearing and he didn’t want to, he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t, he _wouldn’t_ -

He didn’t go to Spanish. He went to the bathroom and sat on the closed lid of the toilet with his knees tucked up to his chest, his face hidden as he tried to take deep breaths. His chest hurt, his head hurt, and he just wanted everything to go away.

He left the bathroom before the bell rang, torn between wanting to find somewhere quiet to hole up for lunch or just walking out of school. The former won out: he just felt too exhausted to face getting into more trouble. It would be bad enough that he'd skipped Spanish. He wandered the corridors for a while, grateful when he didn't run into the hall monitor or any teachers, until he found a small, empty room. He flicked on the lights: there were empty music stands against the wall, and a bookcase of sheet music. Hopefully no one would mind if he spent his lunch in an empty practice room.

The bell rang, and was shortly followed by the sound of loud, chattering crowds exiting the classrooms. Bruce shut his eyes tightly; the noise was like a physical blow.

A woman's voice filtered through from the room next door. “Are you not going for lunch?”

“Not yet. I just want to practice a little longer.” Betty sounded sad, and Bruce hated it. Was she sad because of him? He clenched his fists.

“Okay. Make sure you take a break though, Betty. You need to have lunch.”

“Sure, Mrs Jeffries.”

The sound of the teacher's clicking heels faded away, in the same direction as the crowds of students. Bruce sat and warred miserably with himself, debating over whether he should apologise to Betty or whether he would somehow make everything worse. He'd never been very good at apologising, and he was still a little mad at her for presuming to know what was best for him.

She began to play. Bruce wasn't musical in the slightest, but he could tell that Betty was good. At first she played something quick and complicated, but every now and again would hit a slightly jarring note and Bruce heard a sigh of exasperation. After a few minutes, she began something else, something slower and painful and haunting. Bruce's breath caught in his chest. Even when Betty seemed to fumble over the occasional note, the music was still beautiful and desperately painful.

Bruce stood without really thinking about it and left the room, shutting the door as quietly as possible behind him. The door to the music room was open, and he could see Betty at the piano, her face in profile and the picture of concentration as she played. 

He didn't dare move, lest he ruin everything. He stood and listened, barely breathing, until the music had died away. 

“I know you're there.” Betty didn't look at him, kept her hands on the keyboard. Bruce panicked a little, not knowing what to do.

“That was – you're really good,” he said quietly. 

She shrugged with one shoulder. “I've not got it right yet.”

“It sounded amazing. It was... sad.”

She ducked her head, her hair falling forward to obscure her face. “Yeah. It was played at Mom's funeral.”

Bruce stepped a little closer. “I'm sorry,” he said helplessly. “For being a jerk. I didn't mean it.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Not the bit about not wanting to talk to you. I said that to be mean. I don't know why.”

Betty took a deep, slightly shaky breath and shifted along the piano stool, clearly to make room for him. He sat down hesitantly, leaving a good bit of space between them.

“I just want to help,” Betty said softly. “And I can't. I like being friends with you, and so many horrible things are happening to you and I want to make them stop. I know m-my mom dying isn't the same, but it's the only thing I have that comes even _close_ , and I know how much that hurt me, so I can't even imagine how much this hurts you but you just pretend you're okay.” 

She twisted her hands together in her lap. Bruce watched the way she linked her fingers, then he looked at her face, still mostly hidden by her hair. Her eyes were very bright and she was biting her lip. His stomach swooped and he turned away, looking at the sheet music propped in front of them, tracing his gaze over the indecipherable symbols. They sat in silence for a while.

“I've got to go to court,” he said quietly. “Next week. They're going to make it so my dad isn't legally my dad any more.”

“Oh,” whispered Betty. “That must feel horrible.”

Bruce kept his eyes firmly ahead. “Yeah. But... I dunno. I don't like him. I didn't like him even before he... he killed Mom. He was never very nice to us.”

Betty didn't say anything. She shuffled up the sit to sit closer by him, and Bruce could feel the warmth of her body. They'd been closer than this, bent over their English texts or a Physics experiment, but he was suddenly very aware of her.

“He hurt me,” he said, his voice so soft he wasn't sure he even said it. “Ever since I can remember, he always hurt me.”

Betty didn't say anything. Bruce didn't expect her to; he hadn't meant to tell her that. He was about to apologise, to stand up and leave, when she touched his wrist. He froze, his heart pounding, as Betty gently slipped her hand into his. He stared at her face, which was set and determined, and then down at their joined hands. Her hand was so small compared to his. 

Tentatively, he closed his fingers around hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Betty plays Chopin's Prélude Opus 28 No. 4 in E Minor - listen to it here, it's beautiful.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AoRO_SDruVo)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has to face his father for the first time since his arrest, and Tony tries to fix everything with comic books and a huge Norwegian.

“Could you state your name?”

Bruce took a shaky breath. He could feel his father’s eyes on him, as though his gaze were burning into his skin. He fixed his eyes on Ororo. _Look at me,_ she had said. _Pretend you’re just talking to me._ She gave him a small smile. 

“B- er. R-Robert Bruce B-Banner.”

“But everyone calls you Bruce, is that right?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Alright, Bruce. What is your date of birth?”

“December 18th 1998.” 

Ororo kept her questions simple and to the point. They had run through them several times over the last week, so Bruce knew exactly what to say. His hands were shaking, and he stumbled over his words. A few times Ororo had to ask him to repeat himself, to speak up a little, and panic clawed at his gut. 

“Did you father ever hit you, Bruce?”

For a moment, Bruce froze. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. For the first time he glanced away from Ororo, and his eyes landed on his father. He looked smaller than Bruce remembered him, and thinner, his face sallow and pinched. There was more grey in his hair than before, and even though he was wearing a smart suit his small beard looked unkempt. He was watching Bruce with an unreadable expression, and when their eyes met he gave a twisted little smile. Bruce’s stomach lurched and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick.

_You don’t tell anyone what goes on here – it’s for your own good – wouldn’t need to do this if you weren’t such a freak-_

“Bruce?” He forced his eyes back to Ororo.

“I- yes,” he whispered. “He hit me.”

“How often did it happen?”

Bruce licked his lips, looked at the bench in front of him. “All the time. Most days.”

“How would you describe the blows, Bruce? Like spankings?”

He shook his head, then remembered that he needed to say things out loud. “N-no. Like… real hits. I got bruises.” He was supposed to tell them about the kicks to his ribs and head, about the belt, about having his arm put over the stove, but the words seemed to shrivel in his mouth. He fidgeted with the cuff of his jacket.

“Alright, Bruce. You’re doing really well.” Ororo’s voice was encouraging. Bruce ducked his head, hating everyone’s eyes on him. Ororo pulled out the photos that had been taken at the hospital the day of his mom’s death, showing them to the judge, explaining the injuries, what the hospital report had said.

After what felt like hours of questions, but must only have been ten minutes, Ororo asked if they could take a break before Brian’s attorney asked Bruce any questions. The judge looked at Bruce, seeming to take in his pale face and shaking hands, and scheduled a twenty minute break. 

“You’re doing really, really well,” David said reassuringly, handing Bruce a candy bar. “Eat this, keep your strength up a bit.” Bruce took the candy, but he felt too sick to eat it. He hunched over in the uncomfortable plastic seat. David had already given his evidence, and he’d sounded so confident and assured.

Ororo joined them, tall and sleek in her towering heels. “You’ll be okay,” she said bracingly. “Keep your answers short, and be honest.”

“Okay. Um. I’m sorry I messed up. I just – I couldn’t say everything, not with… not with him there. I couldn’t.”

Ororo sat beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright,” she said soothingly. “Really, Bruce, you did well. Don’t worry. Let’s go back in.”

His father’s attorney, John Atterbury, was a tall, greying man with wire frame glasses. He polished them on his tie before approaching Bruce.

“Hello, Bruce.”

“Um. Hi.”

Atterbury smiled humourlessly. “Now, Bruce, could you tell us how your father was, at home?”

Bruce blinked. “Um. He… sometimes he was okay. We’d watch TV and… and he’d let me help him with his experiments. He got mad a lot, though.”

“You helped him with his experiments, huh? Your dad’s a clever man. You like science too?”

“Yeah.” Bruce was confused. He had no idea where this was going. Nor, it seemed, did Ororo.

“Judge, is this relevant?” she asked.

“Just establishing an idea of their home life, Ms Munroe,” Atterbury said smoothly. “So sometimes you got on okay, and other times your dad got mad.”

“Yeah.”

“When did he get mad? When you were in trouble at school? When you were late home?”

“I – I guess so. But sometimes he was just mad. There wasn’t always a reason.”

“From your school records you were in trouble fairly often, Bruce. Lots of detentions, lots of calls home, a few suspensions.”

“I- I guess?”

The questions went on. Bruce could tell that the attorney was trying to get him to admit that his dad had hit him because he’d misbehaved. Ororo sat with her lips pursed and a frown on her face, sometimes objecting to Atterbury's questions. She was clearly unimpressed. Bruce tried not to look at his dad.

Finally, _finally_ it was over and they broke for lunch. David took Bruce to a pizza place across the road, but Bruce could only pick at his; he felt sick and shaky. David tried to make him feel better, telling him that the worst was over now, but Bruce knew that wasn’t true. They’d be questioning his dad next. 

*

“Could you state your name?”

“Brian David Banner.”

Bruce’s stomach lurched. He mostly thought of his father’s voice as being harsh, loud, threatening. He had forgotten that it could sound so gentle.

“Mr Banner, could you describe your relationship with your son?”

Brian shrugged. “I won’t say it’s easy,” he said. “Bruce is smart – really smart – and he hit a bit of a rebellious teenager phase recently, started hanging round with some kids that were obviously trouble. You know how it is, they start pushing the boundaries a little. I have to be firm with him, I admit that, especially when he cuts class, or when I catch him smoking.”

Bruce clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. His dad had caught him smoking once, with Tony. The cigarette burns were scarred into his upper arm.

“Have you ever hit your son?”

Brian shifted in his seat as though embarrassed. He pushed a hand through his greying hair. “Well, I don’t want to be called a liar,” he said. “I’ve definitely given him a spanking a couple times, when he’s stepped out of line. I admit, I’m old-fashioned in my parenting, but I certainly never _beat_ him.”

“Can you explain the injuries Bruce often incurred?”

“Rough-housing at school,” Brian shrugged. “He got into fights with the other kids. He has a bit of a temper, and he doesn’t think before he acts. It’s all in his school record. The amount of times I got called to go talk to his teachers about him getting rough with another kid.” Brian shook his head despairingly. “He’s a bit troubled. He needs firmness and discipline. His mom – God rest her soul – she always coddled him, let him get away with things.”

A howl of fury and pain began to build in Bruce’s chest. How dare he talk about her! How dare he!

“I love my son, and that’s the truth. The accident took my wife away, ruined my life, and I can’t lose him too.” Brian’s voice was quiet and reasonable, and broke convincingly at the end.

“Liar.” 

Heads turned. The judge asked for quiet, and David put his hand on Bruce’s arm. Bruce was shaking, the howl in his chest building and swelling, an ocean of anger rising in him.

“He’s a liar,” he said, louder this time, and he was on his feet, pulling his arm from David’s grip, and the judge was asking for order but Bruce didn’t care, his dad was looking down at him with his eyes burning and Bruce _hated_ him.

“You killed her!” he yelled, fighting as David tried to pull him away. “You killed her, you took her away! You hurt me and you hurt her _all the fucking time_ and then you _killed_ her! I hate you! I wish you were dead, I wish I could kill you!”

Strong hands were on his arms and around his chest and he was being pulled out of the room, David’s voice on the edge of his hearing telling him that it was okay, that he needed to come outside and calm down, but all Bruce could see was his dad and his twisted little smile. He fought the men holding him as they steered him down a corridor, kicking and snarling, twisting in their grip. 

“In here,” he heard one of them say, and they were in a small room. The door shut and they finally let Bruce go. 

“Bruce,” said David calmly, “Bruce, sit down.”

“No!” How dare he tell Bruce what to do? How dare he be so calm? “Leave me alone, leave me the fuck alone!” He picked up a chair and threw it at the wall, hard. He grabbed the next one. The anger was boiling over, consuming him, burning right down to the tips of his fingers and blazing behind his eyes and he didn’t care what he did, he just wanted to break things, to shatter things the way his entire life had been shattered.

“Bruce.” Grace was there, and Bruce hadn’t even noticed her come into the room. Ororo was there too, and David, and they were all watching him. He clenched and unclenched his hands, barely able to breathe, and looked at the chairs that lay across the floor. One of them was missing a leg.

“Bruce,” Grace said gently. “You’re alright.”

“I hate him,” he whispered, his voice expressionless. “I hate him. Why did he do it? Why?”

“I don’t know,” Grace replied. “I’m sorry, Bruce, I don’t know.” She stepped towards him and he flinched back with a small gasp. He wrapped his arms tight around himself and dropped to a crouch by the wall, ducking his head as though to hide from them. He could sense them all exchanging glances and he curled in tighter.

“I want my mom,” he whispered, and the admission broke something in him, something very deep and private, and a soul-deep ache rose to his throat. His eyes burnt with tears. “Please… please… I want my mom-” 

He couldn’t stop crying. He choked on gasping, desperate sobs, and Grace dropped down beside him, wrapping her thin arms around his shoulders. He wanted to push her away, wanted to be left alone, but she rubbed his back and he just felt so exhausted. Ororo left to go back to the courtroom but he barely noticed. Eventually his sobs died away.

“Let’s go back to Three Oaks,” murmured Grace. “Unless you want to go back in?”

Bruce shook his head. He didn’t want to go anywhere near the courtroom. He didn’t want to go to Three Oaks either.

“I ruined it,” he whispered. “I ruined it.”

“No, Bruce.” Grace helped him to his feet, handed him her handkerchief and he scrubbed at his face with it, feeling utterly embarrassed. “You didn’t ruin anything. And it’s done now.”

David didn’t say anything, but he put his hand on Bruce’s shoulder as they left the court building. Bruce didn’t have the energy to shrug him off.

Grace drove them back to Three Oaks. Bruce chewed on a thumbnail as she drove, and by the time they pulled up outside he’d drawn blood. Grace didn’t say anything, just led him to her office where she gently cleaned his hand and handed him a sticking plaster. It was strangely quiet; the other kids were all still at school.

“I’m tired,” Bruce mumbled. His eyes were aching.

“You can go to bed,” Grace said. “Take this first.” She held out a glass of water and a pill. It didn’t surprise him that she wanted him to take his sedative after everything that had happened. 

The curtains didn’t do much to shut out the daylight, so Bruce pulled the covers right up over his head. He curled up on his side, his knees pulled up to his chest. Exhaustion sat over his thoughts like a heavy blanket, and he let himself drift into an uneasy sleep.

*

The following day was a Saturday and Bruce felt entirely wrung out. David had phoned to see how he was, and to tell him that the judge had agreed to terminate his father’s parental rights.

“It was almost a guaranteed outcome,” he said. “Considering the murder charge, and the evidence of abuse. And it was... well, it was obvious that being around him was severely distressing for you.”

“Okay,” Bruce mumbled. “Um. Thanks.” 

He felt strangely distant from his body, his emotions grey and muted as though the outburst yesterday had drained them all from him. He couldn’t settle to anything, couldn’t concentrate. The voices of the other kids stung at him, and he had to duck outside to avoid them. It was sunny and warm, and he sat underneath one of the tall oak trees that shaded the driveway, pretending to read his book. 

His dad would be back in prison now. The next time Bruce would see him would be at the murder trial. And after that… after that, he would go back to prison, or he would be let free. And he, Bruce, would be … where? Here, at Three Oaks? With a strange family? He’d hoped that by the autumn he would have been at Harvard, but that seemed such a childish dream now.

“Bruce!” a voice called. Tony’s voice. Bruce’s head snapped up; Tony was cycling up the drive towards him, pedalling hard.

“What are you doing here?” Bruce asked, nonplussed as Tony skidded to a halt.

“I’ve come to see you, Brucie. I’m sure someone told me you were smart.” Tony wheeled his bike onto the grass and dropped it unceremoniously, as though it didn’t cost more than most people earned in six months. “Let’s go get icecream.”

“Icecream?”

“Yeah. It’s, y’know, frozen and delicious and comes in all flavours. My treat. C’mon man, I know yesterday was fucking horrific, let me try and distract you from your doom and gloom.”

“How do you know yesterday was horrific?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “What, you’re telling me it was sunshine and daisies? Bruce, it was never gonna be anything _but_. And you like you’ve got two black eyes, so you didn’t exactly sleep properly. That’s another clue.”

Bruce grimaced. The nightmares had been brutal again. “Alright, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll just go and find out if I can go.” An afternoon with Tony would be a distraction, something he sorely needed.

“How bad was it?” Tony asked five minutes later as they walked down the driveway, Tony wheeling his bike.

“Really bad. Um. I might have… flipped out. A bit.”

“Shit, man.”

“Yeah. Well. He – dad – he was sat there saying Mom had an accident and that he loved me and that he only ever hit me when I got in trouble at school and stuff. I got mad.”

“ _Fuck_. Of course you got mad. What a fucking dick. I guess it all went through then?”

“Yeah. I am officially an orphan.” Bruce tried to make his voice light. Tony shouldered him gently.

“Maybe I’ll appeal to Mom and Dad, get ‘em to adopt you. I’ll tell ‘em I really want a little brother.”

“I’m older than you.”

“Pfft, only by a few months. You’re shorter than me, that’s what counts.”

Bruce knew there was no chance of being adopted by the Starks. Howard and Maria barely had time for the son they already had, so there was no way they would go through the adoption process for his fucked up best friend. Tony’s enthusiasm for the idea was good though, and a small bubble of warmth shimmered in Bruce’s chest.

Tony locked his bike against the railings amd bought them both elaborate chocolate sundaes and they sat at the tables outside the restaurant in the early fall sunshine. It was a beautiful day, and Bruce wished he weren’t feeling so blank. Tony was talking a mile a minute and didn’t seem to expect Bruce to join in, for which he was grateful. The icecream was delicious, but he struggled to swallow, his stomach rolling in sickening protest. Tony finished his in record time and immediately began to eat Bruce’s as well.

“Hello Tony, my friend!”

Tony broke off his monologue about the terrible science in the latest rubbish blockbuster he had watched. “Thor! Hey man, pull up a seat!”

The huge, blond kid Bruce had seen in a Facebook photo thumped down in a chair beside him. He was even huger and blonder in real life, and he immediately helped himself to an enormous spoonful of icecream.

“Thor, this is my buddy Bruce. I told you about him, right? Bruce, this is Thor, living legend.”

“Tony has told me much about you,” Thor said, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand and seizing Bruce's hand in the other. “It is good to meet you!”

“Er. And you,” Bruce said. Thor was _loud_. And had possibly broken some of Bruce's fingers.

“So what brings you into the world today, Barbie?” Tony asked. Thor seemed entirely unconcerned with the nickname.

“I wished to be away from home for a while,” he said. “My brother is causing problems for my father, and I felt it would be better to be absent.”

“Your brother is a shithead,” Tony nodded. 

“My brother is finding our new life difficult,” Thor said, frowning. “Do not speak against him.”

“It must be weird, moving to another country,” said Bruce, not liking the way Thor was glowering at Tony.

“It is odd,” Thor agreed. “Things are very different here. But I am enjoying the experience – I feel it is good to learn about other places. Loki simply wishes to return to Norway.”

Bruce felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Loki?” he said. “Seriously? Thor and Loki?”

“It is something of a joke with my family,” Thor explained. “His birth parents said he was a mischievous, laughing baby, and as I already had my own – what do you say? Nickname? - it was fitting.”

“I told you,” said Tony. “It's _badass_. Norway must be awesome.”

“Maybe you shall visit sometime.”

“Seriously? _Awesome_. Wanna go to Norway, Bruce? Do they have, like, sleds in Norway? And reindeer? Can you get pulled along by huskies?”

Bruce felt content to listen as Thor told them an improbable story about getting lost in the icy wilderness whilst dog sledding on Svalbard and having to build an igloo for the night. His mind soon drifted, however, and Thor's deep, booming voice was replaced by his father's.

_He's a troubled kid... his mother coddled him... God rest her soul..._

“Bruce!” Something poked him hard in the side.

“Ouch!”

Tony waved the spoon at him threateningly. “No dwelling,” he said. “I'm trying to distract you. You just missed Thor's awesome story.”

Thor peered at Bruce worriedly. “Are you well?” he rumbled.

“I'm fine,” Bruce muttered, snatching the spoon from Tony. “I'm alright.”

“I have heard what happened to your family. You have my sympathies.” 

“Oh. Uh. Thanks, Thor.”

“Shall we go to the comic book store?” Tony asked, tilting back on his chair. “I wanna see if the new Daredevil's out.”

“Daredevil?” Thor asked.

“Superhero. He's pretty cool. And Echo is _hot_.”

“You really do have a one track mind,” Bruce sighed.

“Lies. I also think about explosions and fast cars.”

At the comic book store Tony disappeared to find the latest Daredevil, leaving Bruce with Thor. He had apparently never read any comics before, but was intrigued by the level of interest shown by Tony. He told Bruce that he had enjoyed the Batman films, so Bruce found him the “Year One” comics to start with. 

“Batman?” Tony said when he reappeared. “Really?”

“I enjoyed the films of him,” Thor said simply. “Bruce has said these are good.”

“Well yeah, they're okay for _Batman_. But he's not even got any proper superhero powers. He's rich enough that he can make himself some gadgets – that's not a power!”

“I think it's good,” Bruce said mildly. “He's not just got hit by some radiation that _inexplicably_ alters him – because _of course_ that's what would happen rather than, y'know, _killing him_. Bruce Wayne is smart and he uses that to beat the bad guys. Well. Smarts and money.”

Tony shrugged. “I guess so. I just think it's cooler when people get badass powers.”

“Which of these heroes do you like, Tony?” Thor asked.

“Don't say Superman,” Bruce muttered as he flicked through a copy of Hellboy.

“The Flash. And Green Lantern.”

“Perhaps I may try those as well,” Thor suggested. Tony beamed, and they left the store half an hour later, Thor now laden with comics. They went a nearby diner and Tony and Thor ordered hamburgers. The boys pored over the purchases and explained things to Thor, who was nothing if not enthusiastic.

“Hi Bruce!” said a familiar voice, and Bruce looked up from the Green Lantern edition he was reading. Betty was smiling at him, her hair pulled into a neat ponytail. His stomach flipped, remembering her small hand in his. Nothing else had happened since then, but they'd definitely been... friendlier. She would give him small, shy smiles whenever their eyes met, and he blushed every time.

“Um. Hi,” he said, very aware that he was already blushing and that Tony was looking between them with a smirk on his face. “Er. This is Tony and... and Thor. Guys, this is Betty. She goes to my school.”

“Hi,” Betty smiled at them quickly before looking back to Bruce. “Um. Are you okay? How was... yesterday?” Betty glanced at Tony and Thor and bit her lip.

“I'm okay. It was... I'm glad it's done. How are- how are you?”

“Oh, I'm fine. I'm going to see a movie with Maria and Jen.” Her two friends were hovering behind her, looking impatient.

“Oh right. Well. Have a good time.”

“Yeah. I'll see you on Monday.” She smiled and raised her hand in farewell before retreating to join her friends, her ponytail swinging.

“Aw Bruuuuce,” Tony grinned. “She liiiiiikes you.”

“We're friends,” Bruce said firmly. He wasn't going to tell Tony about holding Betty's hand. He was keeping _that_ locked away in his chest. “That's it.”

“Nah man, she's got all gooey, girly feelings for you. You should definitely date her.”

Thor shoved Tony's shoulder. “Men and women do not have to, ah, 'date' if they do not wish to,” he said firmly. “Many believed that I was... 'dating' my friend Sif, but we were simply good friends.”

“Thank you, Thor,” Bruce said, turning back to his comic. “Just because you only think with your dick, Tony.”

Tony shook his head in despair. “Such a waste,” he said in a dramatic tone.

Hours later, lying in bed, Bruce's dreams were disturbed. Pages of a comic book were scattered over a courtroom. He kept trying to pick them up but more and more appeared, there were too many, he couldn't hold them all, Tony was going to be _pissed_. Ororo was watching him from her seat, her eyes blank, and in the judge's chair sat his father, a twisted smile on his face.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, spending time with Tony is now tantamount to a crime, and Bruce definitely doesn't have a crush on a girl.

The strange blankness that had taken hold of Bruce following his father’s hearing continued into the following week. It unnerved him enough that he opened up to Doctor Skervin about it about it at their next appointment.

“I just… at the – the hearing, it was like I felt… everything, all at once. It was too much, and I was so mad and I couldn’t stop myself. Now it’s like I’m all flat. I can’t think properly, it’s like I’m not even really here.”

Doctor Skervin tapped her lower lip with her pen.

“Often, after we’ve experienced a loss, after the immediate emotional reaction, we go into shock. Our minds put a distance between ourselves and what has happened, because the emotions feel too large to deal with. You’ve lost both your mother and your father in very distressing circumstances, it doesn’t surprise me that you’re feeing this way.”

“I don’t like it,” Bruce muttered. “I mean, all those feelings weren’t fun either, but it was better than… than this.”

“It won’t last forever,” Doctor Skervin said gently. “This is going to be a very, very difficult time for you Bruce, but talking about it in these sessions will go a long way to helping you come to terms with things. I’m very pleased that you’ve chosen to tell me about this today.”

Bruce shrugged. He was distantly aware of a spike of irritation at her words – of course this was going to be a difficult time! – but it seemed to be happening to someone else. 

“I think I would like to see you more than once a week,” Doctor Skervin said at the end of the session. “Just for a little while, whilst you’re processing everything.”

Bruce hunched his shoulders miserably. More hours spent in this room… Doctor Skervin obviously thought he was going crazy. They were probably all scared he’d flip out and destroy the furniture, like in the court room.

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me, Bruce?”

He looked at his knees and shook his head. He heard Doctor Skervin sigh gently, and suspected that she was a little disappointed.

“Alright. I’ll see you later in the week; I’ll let you know which day and time.”

He nodded and stood, leaving Doctor Skervin scribbling in her notebook, a frown on her face.

*

Tony didn’t visit that Wednesday. His father’s old friend Obie was in town and was taking Tony for dinner. Bruce couldn’t help but feel a little jealous and abandoned, though he couldn’t really begrudge Tony; his friend adored Obie, who gave him all the attention and affection he lacked from his father. Tony often said that he’d have been better off being brought up by Obie.

Bruce was playing solitaire in the living room and trying not to feel too lonely when Tom found him. 

“Bruce? A friend’s here to see you.”

Bruce frowned. Had Tony not gone out with Obie after all? “Tony?”

“No, a girl. Said her name’s Betty.”

Bruce’s stomach lurched. Betty had come to see him. Why had Betty come to see him? This wasn’t just hanging around at school because they were in the same classes. She’d actively come to spend time with him. He nearly knocked the chair over as he stood up.

“Girlfriend?” Tom asked, grinning, and Bruce glared at him. He knew it was a joke, but it wasn’t one he appreciated. Why did everyone assume Betty was his girlfriend, just because he was a boy and she was a girl? It was stupid.

He didn’t want her to be his girlfriend. Sure she was fun, and smart, and pretty, and she understood things other people didn’t, and she’d held his hand, and his stomach did somersaults when she smiled at him. Sure, he wondered what her hair felt like, and if he could hold her hand again, and what it would be like to kiss her.

Fuck.

Betty was waiting outside, holding the leash of a golden retriever. She waved at Bruce when she saw him.

“I asked if you could walk with us,” she said brightly. “If you want to, of course.”

“Um. Sure, that would be good.”

She smiled. “This is Leo. Leo, this is Bruce. You don’t mind dogs, do you?”

“No. I always wanted a dog, but I was never allowed.” Bruce ruffled Leo’s ears and had his hand licked in return. “Hi, Leo.”

“You said your friend wouldn't be able to come over,” Betty explained as they headed down the driveway, “so I thought I’d come instead. You don’t mind, do you? I don’t want to butt in.”

“It’s fine,” Bruce said, putting his hands in his pockets. “It’s… really nice of you.”

“I’ve got to be home by six. I just told Dad I was taking Leo out – he wouldn’t be very happy if he knew I was here.”

“How come?”

Betty shrugged and made an impatient little noise. “He hates it when I spend any time with boys, like he thinks I’m going to get pregnant or something just by talking to them. Even when I go out with Marie or anyone I have to tell him exactly where I’m going, who with, and when I’ll be back. He even calls their parents to check up on me. It’s so annoying.”

Bruce had grown up under his father’s strict but seemingly arbitrary rules, but that still seemed incredibly controlling. “It sounds it,” he agreed. “I guess he’s worried about you, though.”

“I don’t care,” she said fiercely. “He’s not got any right to tell me who I can and can’t be friends with. He gave me a really long lecture that day after you pushed that kid into the lockers. Nothing about what had happened, he was just mad that I was hanging around with you.”

Bruce’s blood ran cold. Betty’s dad had been mad at her because of him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe we shouldn’t – hang out as much.”

“Oh, not you as well. I can decide who I want to be friends with, and I’m not letting Dad have a say!”

“I don’t want him to be mad at you.”

There was a pause. “Oh,” Betty said in a small voice. “Bruce, no, I – he’s not like… not like that. He gets mad and he gets a bit… stern, and he shouts sometimes, but when he gets mad it’s… he doesn’t hurt me.”

“I didn’t say he did.”

“You thought it, though. Honestly, Bruce, I’m fine. The worst that’ll happen is he’ll give me a lecture and ground me for a few days. And I’m not going to stop being friends with you just because he’s paranoid.”

Bruce glanced sidelong at her. Her face was set. “Okay. Sorry.”

She bumped his arm. “It’s okay. I guess your idea of someone’s dad being mad is a bit… different.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

They walked to the park, Leo trotting contentedly beside them. When they reached the expanse of grass, Betty unclipped his leash and let him wander off.

“He’s a bit old and stiff,” she said as Leo sniffed around a bush. “He used to run around like he was in a race.”

“How old is he?”

“Ten, I think? We got him when I was really young. I named him Leo cause that’s his zodiac sign, same as me.”

Bruce snorted. “Zodiac signs? Really?”

“I was five! I believed in unicorns! Anyway, everyone knows what their sign is.”

“I don’t know mine.”

“Really? When’s your birthday?”

“December 18th.”

“So you’re Sagittarius. The centaur. And I’m a lion.”

Bruce laughed. “So I’m part horse, huh? Star signs are such crap. Unicorns, though…”

“Absence of proof is not proof of absence,” Betty said, maintaining a straight face for only a moment.

“It would be cooler if dragons or something existed. Unicorns are boring.”

“They’re really not. Though dragons are good too. I like to think the Loch Ness Monster is real.”

“Betty, I am losing all faith in your scientific mind.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Leo brought them a stick he had found and they threw it for him a few times, having to wrestle it out of his mouth whenever he brought it back.

Once Leo had tired of playing fetch and had wandered off to explore some molehills in the grass, Betty and Bruce meandered over to a tree and sat underneath it. “Are you doing okay?” Betty asked, stretching her long legs in front of her. “After Friday, I mean.”

Bruce shrugged. He fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve, unsure what to do with his hands. “I guess so. It was always going to happen that way, I think.” He remembered Betty saying she wanted to help, remembered her hand in his, and felt a strange desire to tell her things. He realised suddenly how close they were sitting; he would only have to move a few inches and they would be touching. His stomach twisted. “It was weird though, seeing him. I always remember him being… bigger.”

“Are you glad, that you’re away from him for real now?”

“I… I don’t know. I guess so. I don’t ever want to live with him again, not after what he did. But… I dunno. He’s my dad. And now I’m either gonna live at Three Oaks or I’ll get sent to some other family.”

“That’s hard, not knowing what’s going to happen. But you’ll be going to college in a few years – it’s not that long.”

“I guess not.” 

“Are you gonna study Physics, at college?” Her voice was curious, and the change in subject flooded Bruce with relief. Leo plodded over to them, clearly tired from exploring, and flopped to the ground with his head on Betty’s knee.

“Yeah, I think so. I want to try and get into Harvard.”

Betty scratched behind Leo’s ears. “Yeah? I bet you’ll get in, you’re crazy smart. I… I always wanted to go to Harvard too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if I’ll get in, but I always planned to go. I can’t decide if I want to major in Chemistry or Biology, though.”

“You’ve got a few years to decide. I bet you could get in.”

“You think so? I mean, I’m smart, and I’ve got a good GPA, but. Well. It’s Harvard.”

“You’re one of the smartest people I know. You’ll get in.”

Betty grinned. “We can go together,” she said. “It’ll be awesome. Did you say your friend with the robots wants to go to MIT?”

“Yeah, Tony’s always wanted to go there. He’s gonna be an engineer.”

“Tony? You don’t mean Tony _Stark_ do you?”

“Um. Yeah.” He had never mentioned Tony’s name to Betty before – it was a little awkward when your friend was the son of someone as famous as Howard Stark.

“No way. Your best friend is Tony _Stark_? He lives in that massive house? His dad runs Stark Industries?”

“Yeah. We were at Green Fields together.”

“Wow. Okay, that explains the robots. You make him sound different to how I’d imagine, since he’s so… well. Rich.”

“Well, he can be an annoying, spoiled dick at times, but he’s a good guy. He’s helped me a lot.”

“I’m glad,” Betty said seriously. Then she shook her head. “Tony _Stark_ ,” she muttered again. “Who was that other kid you were with on the weekend? The blond one?”

“He’s Tony’s friend. He moved here from Norway a few weeks back. His name’s Thor.”

“Thor? Like the god of thunder? No way.”

“Yeah, I know. It suits him though; he’s loud enough.”

“I bet Norway’s really cool.”

“Definitely, considering it’s partly in the Arctic Circle.”

Betty shoved him lightly. “You know what I mean,” she admonished. Bruce just grinned and ducked his head, his skin tingling where she had touched him. 

Before long dusk was gathering and they had to start back so that Betty would not miss her curfew. On the walk back she asked which comic books he had been reading in the diner, and they fell into an animated debate about Batman villains. Bruce could scarcely credit how easy Betty was to talk to, even though her opinion on Harley Quinn was frankly bizarre, and he realised that the strange blankness in his mind had abated slightly. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Betty fidgeted with the end of Leo’s leash, not quite meeting Bruce’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Um. Thanks. For coming to see me.”

“We could do it again some time?” she suggested, looking strangely hopeful. Bruce’s heart seemed to lurch in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said faintly. “That… that would be good.”

For a moment they just looked at one another in awkward silence. Betty’s cheeks were pink and she was biting her lip. Bruce wanted to do… something… but he didn’t know what. He wasn’t sure he would dare even if he did know.

“I should go,” he blurted out. “Um. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Betty agreed hurriedly. “Bye. C’mon Leo, good boy.”

She turned away, and Bruce hurried up the driveway to Three Oaks, his cheeks burning.

*

Bruce was held back after History the following day and given a lecture about not paying attention in class. He stared sullenly over Mr Richmond’s shoulder and made short, affirmative sounds. So he hadn’t been listening, so what? No one actually _cared_ about any of this stuff. He hadn’t been disrupting anything, he’d just been thinking about other things, other things that were slightly more important than the Civil fucking War. 

He was let off with a warning, threatened with detention if he didn’t change his attitude. He didn’t care, just shouldered his bag and left the room in stony silence. 

Betty wasn’t in English, and cold dread swept through Bruce’s body. She had been fine yesterday evening, so why wasn’t she in class? All reasonable explanations fled his mind: her dad had found out that she’d been with Bruce, and she’d got into trouble, and it was Bruce’s fault. He felt sick and shaky, barely hearing a word that Miss Frost said. 

“Hey! Bruce!” A voice hailed him as he headed out to recess after class.

He turned and saw Betty’s friend Marie pushing through the crowded corridor towards him, clutching several books to her chest. He stopped and waited for her to catch up.

“Hey,” she gasped. “Look, Betty text me earlier, asked me to let you know she had a bit of a temperature last night, but she’s okay. She asked if you could get her any Physics homework.”

“Um. Okay, sure.”

“Right.” Marie nodded, looking a little awkward. “Look,” she said, and Bruce wondered if she started every sentence that way. “I don’t know why Betts likes you, but she’s my best friend so I accept her weird taste. But don’t you dare hurt her. Everyone knows you’re messed up, but so long as you’re good to her then we’re all good. Okay?”

Bruce stared at her, dull anger stirring in his mind. “Why would I hurt her?” he asked. “And why is it your business?” 

“It’s my business because she’s my friend,” said Marie. “And I don’t think you’d hurt her on purpose, but… look, Betts doesn’t need any trouble. She’s had a rough time, and I’m just trying to make sure she’s okay.”

Bruce glared at her. Who the hell did she think she was? “I think Betty can decide that for herself,” he said coldly, then walked away before Marie could say anything else.

He found a secluded corner of the schoolyard and sat down, pulling his knees up. His head was a tangle of worry and anger as he sent a text to Tony.

_Can you hang out tonight?_

Tony’s reply was almost instant. _Sure thing dude. Thought you had ~therapy~ tonight_

Bruce rolled his eyes. Tony could scarcely use commas, but he had no problems putting in obscure pieces of punctuation. _Fuck that. Having a crappy day, that would be the icing on the crappy cake._

_No problemo, dude bro. Think of it as alternative therapy Stark style. Where shall I meet you_

_Diner after school?_

_Your wish is my command big guy. LATERZ_

Bruce knew he would get into trouble for missing counselling, particularly as it was the first of his extra sessions with Doctor Skervin. He didn’t care, though. Let them punish him. What the hell could they do, anyway? Ground him? What the fuck ever. He’d had fourteen years of punishments that ended in black eyes and broken ribs, they couldn’t do anything to him that would actually fucking matter. And who were they to say that the appointments _they_ made mattered more than him seeing Tony? Time with Tony was more important than _anything_ they did.

Physics without Betty was boring and he couldn’t shake the gnawing anxiety about her. Sure, she’d _told_ Marie she had a temperature, but she’d been fine yesterday, she hadn’t looked sick, and Bruce knew all about how to lie to cover up things you didn’t want people to know. He could see it all too easily: Mr Ross shouting at her for lying to him, for spending time with Bruce, raising his hand to her, Betty crying out and shielding her face as the blows fell…

“Are you alright, Mr Banner?”

Bruce jumped, startled, as Mrs Herbert appeared beside him.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, turning back to his workbook. 

“Hm. No Miss Ross today then?”

“No. She’s sick.”

“Pity. You’ll have to catch her up when she’s back.”

_She already knows all this crap_ , Bruce managed to keep himself from retorting. He just bent his head over his equations until Mrs Herbert went away.

*

“Bruce? Where are you going?”

Bruce sighed and turned around. Steve was waiting for the bus with a crowd of other kids, looking confused.

“I’m going to see a friend,” he said. “I’ll be back later.”

“Oh, right. Did you ask already?”

“No. It’s… his mom’s sick,” he lied quickly. “He’s having a rough time so I said I’d go see him. Could you tell Grace?”

Steve’s expression cleared and he nodded. “Sure,” he said agreeably. “I’ll let Grace know. I hope your friend’s okay.”

“Thanks, Steve.” 

Bruce felt a little bad for lying to Steve – and for making Steve lie for him. He was a good guy and was far friendlier to Bruce than Bruce deserved, but what people didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, and it might just keep him out of trouble.

It was a half hour walk from school to the main part of town, and it rained most of the way. By the time Bruce arrived at the diner his hair was plastered to his head and both his jacket and sneakers were soaked through. Tony was lounging in a corner booth, two huge mugs of hot chocolate and whipped cream in front of him.

“About time,” he exclaimed on seeing Bruce. “I was gonna have yours too.” He pushed one of the mugs towards him. “Dude, did you _swim_ here?”

“I may as well have,” Bruce grimaced, shrugging out of his drenched jacket. He took off his steamed-up glasses. “Though I wouldn’t have actually made it if that were the case. You know I can’t swim.”

“We really do need to do something about that.”

“You say that all the time.”

“Yeah, and you never take me up on it. I have a pool, Banner! An indoor, heated, luxury pool!”

“No offence, but I’m not sure I want you teaching me not to drown in a pool of water.” 

“Oh, ye of little faith. See if I get you a hot chocolate again.”

A few hours in Tony's company settled Bruce a little, but on the ride home (in Tony's car, because the rain was still sheeting down), worry clawed at his stomach and anger simmered through his veins. He knew he was going to be in trouble for missing his therapy session: Grace had been very clear that all sessions were compulsory.

He wasn't disappointed. As soon as he set foot through the door, Jane intercepted him.

“Grace needs to talk to you in her office,” she said.

Bruce shrugged. “I've got homework,” he lied.

“You can do that after. Come on.”

Bruce opened his mouth to argue, to push back, when Grace stepped into the reception area. “Bruce. This way, please.” Her voice was quiet but firm, and brooked no argument. Bruce threw Jane a mutinous look and went with Grace.

“Sit down, Bruce,” Grace said, shutting the door to her office. Bruce threw himself into the chair and stared determinedly at the wall past Grace's desk.

“You had an appointment with Doctor Skervin this evening, Bruce.”

“I forgot.”

“Somehow I don't think that's true. You also went somewhere after school without informing anybody. And when I say anybody, I mean an adult who works here, not Steve Rogers.”

Bruce didn't say anything. Anger was thrumming through him. Why did he have to tell her anything?

“You know the sessions here are compulsory, Bruce, and they are in place to help you. Everything we do here is for your benefit.”

Bruce clenched his fists. He was shaking, and the anger was boiling and frothing behind his eyes. “I didn't ask for this,” he said, voice low and trembling. “I didn't ask for your stupid therapy, or to be in your home. I didn't ask to be stuck here, to have you swoop in and start controlling what I do every fucking minute of the day, only letting me see my friends when I toe the fucking line, when it's convenient for _you_!”

“Bruce, sit down please. We can discuss this calmly.” Grace's voice didn't falter, and Bruce hated her. He hadn't meant to stand up, but once he was up he couldn't keep still. He shoved the chair back so it clattered to the floor and he began to pace the office.

“I haven't done anything wrong so why the fuck am I being trapped here like a fucking criminal? You go on and on and on about how you want the 'best' for me and about how you know how 'hard' this is, but you don't have a fucking clue _about_ me! Who even are you? Just a bunch of strange adults who I got _dumped with_ when everything had already gone to shit, and now you're going to punish me for going to see my best friend and sit there looking all condescending like you know exactly how I feel and then you'll probably fucking _drug me_ for this because that's what you want, isn't it?”

The papers on Grace's desk fluttered to the floor with one sweep of his arm. Her lamp crashed against the wall. Rage and injustice and misery howled in Bruce's head and Grace was just _sitting there_.

“Poor, traumatised Bruce, we'll fix everything for you with our fucking pointless therapy and our drugs and then pat ourselves on the back for being so fucking understanding. Well, fuck that! I don't like you, I don't trust you, I don't want to be here, so _leave. Me. Alone._!”

Bruce flung the door open and nearly walked straight into Tom and Jane. Tom reached out and Bruce backed up quickly, panic rearing its ugly head, and he heard himself gasp, “No, don't _touch me_ -”

“Bruce, buddy, calm down-” Tom said.

“Don't tell me what to fucking do!” Bruce howled. “Stop it, stop it! I didn't do anything wrong! I didn't! Leave me alone, leave me the _fuck_ alone, I hate you, I hate all of you, I hate this place, just _get out_!”

Bruce's shoulders hit the wall. He hadn't even realised he'd been backing up. Tom stepped towards him again and he flinched, hating himself for it. He was gasping for breath, everything was closing in on him, he couldn't feel his hands, his stomach was rolling oh god oh god oh god-

When Bruce came back to himself he was sitting on the sofa in the corner of Grace's office. He felt very shaky and weak, and his fingers were tingling with pins and needles. The broken lamp had been taken away, and the papers were piled loosely on the desk. Grace was sitting beside the sofa.

“Um.” Bruce didn't know what to say. He folded his arms tightly around his torso.

“How are you feeling?” Grace asked.

“Um. Shaky. A bit... sick.”

“You had a panic attack,” she said, holding out a mug. Bruce took it in shaking hands and took a sip of the sweetened tea. He didn't want to drink anything Grace gave him, but it was soothing. The trembling began to subside. 

“You aren't the first resident to feel they are being treated unjustly, Bruce,” she said when he didn't look at her or speak. “And you're right. None of this is your fault. You did not ask for any of this. Nobody asks for dreadful things to happen. But I have a responsibility – a legal and ethical responsibility – to look after young, vulnerable people. I know that, to you, it looks as though you are being controlled and punished unfairly.”

“I only went to see Tony,” Bruce mumbled. “I'd had a really bad day and I wanted to see my friend. He made me feel better. Being here made me feel worse.”

“I know that counselling isn't fun, Bruce.”

“I'd rather talk to Tony or Betty than anyone here.”

“It's good that you can talk to your friends, but they aren't trained counsellors with experience of helping people with trauma.”

“I don't care. And I still didn't do anything wrong. You knew where I was and what I was doing – Steve told you.”

“You told Steve a lie.”

“Not a complete lie. I was with a friend. I was coming back. I hadn't run away.”

Grace sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Bruce suspected that he was beginning to break through her seemingly endless patience. With that knowledge, a small, savage thrill sparked in his belly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for movie night at Clint's place, and Steve is a Really Good Guy.

Bruce shut himself away for the rest of the week. Betty wasn’t at school on Friday, and he kept his replies to Tony’s frequent texts short and curt. Tony would know something was up, of course, but he seemed to be saving the interrogation. Bruce wasn’t particularly looking forward to coming up with answers for him.

He hadn’t spoken a word to a single member of staff at Three Oaks since his outburst on Thursday night. They had banned him from going out with friends for the time being, though he had spent a few hours in his room with a screwdriver over the weekend (borrowed from Tony a long time ago and never returned), until eventually his window opened fully. The windows usually only opened a crack, presumably to prevent escape attempts. Bruce felt better after that, with the knowledge that he could climb out of the window and get away if he so chose.

He had considered climbing out and leaving on Saturday night, but where would he go? Tony was away for the weekend, on some trip with Obie, and he had nowhere else. He’d settled for shutting himself up in his room as often as possible until Monday morning. 

Betty was back at school, looking a little wan and tired, but she seemed bright enough. Bruce couldn’t help but watch her for any stiffness, for any signs of hidden bruises or pains, but there was nothing.

“I was fine by Saturday,” she told him. “I dunno what it was, but my temperature was scary high on Thursday morning. I thought the walls were melting.”

By the end of Physics Bruce’s fears had been allayed a little. Betty was clearly fine, and she went off to lunch with Marie looking as cheerful as ever. Marie gave Bruce a dark look as he left to find Clint and Natalya.

*

“Where are we going?” Bruce asked.

“Roof,” said Clint cheerily. “You any good at climbing?”

“I dunno. I’ve climbed trees and things.”

“Well, there’s a pretty easy bit round near the gym, y’know where they keep the dumpsters?”

Easy, Bruce reflected, was a relative term. Natalya vaulted onto the large dumpster like an acrobat, and Clint jumped after her. Bruce had never exactly been athletic – he was small for his age, and skinny, and he preferred to eschew most physical activity. He made a game effort though, and Clint grabbed his arm to haul him up.

“Guess I’m not made for climbing,” Bruce muttered.

“It get easier,” Natalya said. “When you climb more.”

Bruce gave her a dubious look. “You got up here in one leap.”

Natalya flashed him a grin. “I am gymnast,” she said simply. “Come on.” 

It was simpler from there. By dint of balancing on the railings, they could use a windowsill and the guttering to scramble up onto the roof. There was a fairly hidden area in the middle of the roof where Clint and Natalya had clearly made themselves comfortable many times before. They even had supplies: a tin box with bags of chips, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. 

“Want one?” Clint waved the cigarette pack in front of Bruce’s face, his eyes sparkling. Bruce glared at him and pulled out a cigarette, flicking the lighter open and lighting up with a practiced hand. Clint narrowed his eyes.

“Dammit, I was waiting for the hilarious coughing fit.”

“You’re a couple years too late for that.”

Natalya laughed softly.

They smoked in companionable silence for a few moments, and Bruce felt calmer than he had done since his outburst and ensuing panic attack four days ago. 

“Bruce,” Natalya’s voice cut into his thoughts, “You can make smoke rings?”

“I’ve never tried,” he admitted. Natalya smirked. She took a drag on her cigarette, tilted her head back slightly, and blew out a shimmering smoke ring.

“Nice one,” Clint said admiringly. He was lying on his back, one hand tucked behind his head. He attempted his own smoke ring, but it came out as a solid circle. 

“Use your tongue,” Natalya said.

“That’s what she said,” Clint leered, and Natalya kicked him.

“I’d have thought you’d have learned by now,” Bruce commented. “Sexist comment equals pain.”

“He learn,” Natalya said. “It take long time, but he learn.”

“I’m not actually your pet dog, Tash,” Clint grumbled, rubbing his knee.

“How do you make a smoke ring?” Bruce asked.

He wasn’t very good at it. By the end of the lunch break he hadn’t made a single ring. Clint and Natalya had a competition with theirs, which Natalya won, naturally.

As Clint packed the tin box up, Bruce turned to Natalya. “Спасибо,” he said awkwardly. “For trying to teach me.”

Natalya’s pale face brightened. “Oh, пожалуйста,” she said. “I did not know you know Russian.”

“Um. I don’t. I got a book out, to try and learn a bit. Hello, goodbye, please, thank you, that kind of thing.”

“I help,” she said firmly. “If you want to learn. I help.”

“Really? That… that would be great.”

Getting down from the roof was much easier than getting up on it, and the three of them joined the chattering crowds of students heading back into the school. 

“You busy on the weekend?” Clint asked. “The folks are going away, so I was gonna have some people over for a movie night. You in?”

Bruce suspected that his ban on visiting rights wouldn’t be lifted by the weekend. Then he remembered his window. “Maybe,” he said. “I was gonna hang out with a friend from my old school, but-“

“Oh, bring him. Her. Whoever,” Clint waved a hand. “The more the merrier. So long as they like old swashbucklers and horror movies.”

“I’ll ask him,” Bruce said. Tony would probably love a night of old horror movies. “Um. Who else is going?”

“At the moment Tasha and Steve – you know Steve, he’s at Three Oaks too.”

Bruce blinked. That was unexpected. “Steve _Rogers_?” Clint did not strike him as the type to be friends with Steve. Where Clint was clearly rebellious and a pain in the ass, Steve was unfailingly polite and respectful.

“Yeah. We play baseball together sometimes, and soccer. He’s a good guy.”

Steve being there might put a slight dint into Bruce’s escape plan, but he could work on it.

“Maybe I bring Russian movie,” Natalya said. “So you can learn more words.”

“Okay. I’ll come.”

“Awesome, it’s a date.” Clint smacked Bruce hard on the shoulder, grinning. “Alright, losers, I’m off to survive the perils of Geometry. Laters.”

“Bye,” Bruce said, shifting his bag further onto his shoulder. “Um. See you, Natalya. до свидания.”

“Пока,” she corrected. “Is… friendlier.”

She was smiling, though her expression was a little wary. “Покa,” Bruce agreed.

*

“Can I go to a friend’s this weekend?” Bruce asked. Doctor Skervin, to her credit, did little more than raise her eyebrows slightly. It was the first thing Bruce had said in two and a half sessions.

“You can understand why we would be unwilling to let you, Bruce.”

“Right yeah. I forgot I’d committed a crime.”

“The Three Oaks rules are in place for a reason, as are the sanctions. And you haven’t exactly been cooperative since last Thursday, either.”

“I’ve been to every session and every meal time. I’ve got on at school. No one told me that talking was in the rules.”

“You haven’t shown any cooperation with your therapy, Bruce.”

“I’ve not had anything to say. Or am I not allowed to decide when to speak any more? Freedom of speech suggests freedom _not_ to speak, doesn’t it?” He probably wasn’t helping his cause, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. 

Doctor Skervin eyed him steadily for a moment, and he glared straight back, resisting the urge to cut his gaze away. He hated looking people in the eye. Eventually she leaned forward, clasping her hands together.

“Alright,” she said, “How about this. We make the rest of this session count, and I will talk to Grace about it. Which friend are you going to see? Mr Stark?”

“No. Clint, a friend from school. Steve’s going too.”

Doctor Skervin’s face cleared a little at that. Bruce had suspected as much; they would trust him more if Steve were there to keep an eye on him. “Alright,” she said. “We have twenty minutes left.”

Bruce eyed her for a moment longer, weighing up his options. He didn’t want to tell her anything important. He neither trusted nor liked her. But he did feel a grudging respect for her willingness to bargain with him. He could give her a scrap.

“I’ve been trying to learn Russian,” he said.

*

“No, really, I’m okay walking,” Steve said again.

“Oh for the love of – get _in_ , Stan, or whatever your name is.”

“We’re going to the same place, Steve,” Bruce pointed out. “What’s wrong with getting a lift?”

Steve shuffled his feet for a moment, then sighed and climbed into the car. Bruce had become used to the casual displays of wealth that surrounded Tony, but it obviously made Steve uncomfortable.

“You like zombie movies, Stu?”

“Steve. And they’re okay, I guess. I’ve not seen many.”

“What did you bring?” Bruce asked Tony.

“I went classic. _Night of the Living Dead_ and _Dawn of the Dead_. Original, of course.”

“Of course,” Bruce murmured. 

Steve looked a little more interested. “Oh, I like the old ones,” he said. “I didn’t like that new one, where the zombies run.”

“Yeah man, zombies don’t run,” Tony agreed. “Which reminds me, Brucey-kins, you need to come over for that Walking Dead marathon. Jarvis won’t watch it with me.”

“Really? Is Jarvis squeamish?”

“He _says_ he’s busy, but that’s a crock of shit. I bet he faints at the sight of blood.”

“Who’s Jarvis?” asked Steve.

“My butler.”

“Oh. Right.” Steve shifted awkwardly in his seat, then stared out of the window in silence for the rest of the journey.

As Bruce had predicted. Tony and Clint hit it off right away, falling almost immediately into an enthusiastic conversation about slasher movies as though they’d known each other for years. Steve quietly took over making the popcorn when a particularly enthusiastic arm gesture from Clint threatened to throw it everywhere.

“Where’s Natalya?” Bruce asked.

“On her way. She had dance class first, so I guess she was running late.”

“Is she hot?” Tony demanded.

“Because that’s important,” Steve muttered, seemingly to himself.

“Ye-es,” Clint hedged, “but she is also terrifying. And Russian. Which is extra terrifying. Seriously man, take it from me, flirting with her will bring you a world of pain.”

“She your girlfriend?”

“Nah, man. We’ve been buddies for years. That’d be weird.”

Tony sighed. “So you’re telling me that a hot, single Russian dancer is coming over, and I can’t put the moves on her?”

“You could try,” Bruce suggested. “We’ve got popcorn, after all. It could be fun.”

Tony glared at him. “You don’t get a say in the girl stakes until you have the balls to do something about that Betty chick.” He rounded on Clint. “Seriously, what is going on there? Brucey is being all closed-mouthed.”

Clint held up his hands. “Whoa, I ain’t getting involved in that.”

Tony snorted. “Whatever. Don’t worry Bruce, you’ll grow a pair.” He gave Bruce a friendly smack on the shoulder, then yelped when Bruce cuffed him over the back of the head. 

“You guys are lucky Natasha isn’t here,” Steve said. 

“I didn’t do anything!” Clint exclaimed. “You can’t tell her I did anything!”

“What did you do?” Natalya said from the doorway, making them all jump. “Your door was open,” she explained, hopping up onto the counter. “So. What Clint do?”

“Nothing. I did nothing. I am entirely innocent,” Clint declared. “Anyway, Tasha, this is Tony. Tony, Natalya.”

“Charmed.” Tony held out his hand and put on his best smouldering grin, the one that made a lot of girls at Green Fields giggle and blush. 

Natalya regarding him expressionlessly, then gave his hand a cursory shake. “Hello,” she said. “You are Bruce’s friend?”

“That’s right,” Tony slung an arm around Bruce’s shoulders. “He was my bro, before you Sandworth kids stole him from me. You look after him, you hear?” He ruffled Bruce’s hair and Bruce squirmed.

“Get _off_ me, you dick.”

“He’s a sensitive soul really,” Tony said, releasing Bruce. “So, gang, what’s the plan? Will there be pizza? We should get pizza. I’ll order pizza.”

“Um, I can’t exactly afford-“ Steve began.

“Dude, I don’t like to blow my own trumpet, but I can definitely afford enough pizza for this motley crew. So. Pizza later?”

*

A couple of hours later they had eaten two bowls of popcorn and the end title card of The Three Musketeers showed on the screen. Natalya was still not convinced of its brilliance, though she grudgingly admitted to admiration for Gene Kelly. Steve, it turned out, was as big a fan as Clint and they spent ten minutes enthusiastically discussing the fight choreography. Tony just bemoaned the lack of explosions.

“Right,” said Clint cheerfully. “Let’s order pizza. Then zombies. Anyone want a beer?”

“I don’t drink,” Steve said quickly when Clint brought in some cans. 

“Bor- _ring_ ,” Tony exclaimed, taking a can and popping the cap open instantly. “Cheers, dude.”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t like the taste,” he said. “Seems pointless to drink it, really.”

Bruce hesitated before he took a beer. He and Tony did drink together, but alcohol always seemed worse to him than cigarettes or pot; most of his worst memories were tinged with the smell of whisky.

“No telling,” he told Steve as he took a drink. 

“Why would I?” Steve asked, and he sounded a little hurt. 

Bruce shrugged. “Just checking.”

Natalya’s lip curled as she sipped at her beer. “American alcohol so bad,” she said.

Tony pointed at her. “Not all of it. The beer is kind of bad. I shoulda brought some liquor. I guess you like vodka?”

Natalya shrugged. “Is okay. I like whisky. _Good_ whisky. I use to steal it from my uncle.”

“Well, I know for next time,” said Tony cheerfully. Bruce gritted his teeth.

Clint flipped through the DVD menu of Night of the Living Dead to find the subtitles – he had looked a little embarrassed earlier, explaining that he found it easier to follow films with subtitles on – and they watched the movie whilst eating loaded pizza and drinking warm beer, though they lost track of the plot halfway through in lieu of working out a complex zombie survival plan. Tony and Steve had a long argument about the relative ethics of sacrificing someone to a horde of zombies, and Bruce’s plan of “run and hide for as long as possible” was panned by everyone else in the room. Bruce personally found Natalya’s contributions to be quite disturbing; she came up with a frightening number of decapitation methods.

“See?” Clint said. “She’s scary.”

Natalya just leaned forward and stole a slice of pizza from right under his fingers. 

The evening was going well which, Bruce reflected, should have been a hint. He only seemed to be allowed to have so much fun at once, and he’d been feeling relaxed and almost happy for hours.

It was a relatively innocuous thing, really. They had moved from Night of the Living Dead onto Natalya’s first choice, Thirty Days of Night. The film was interesting and exciting, right up until the moment one of the main characters snapped a prisoner’s neck and the brutal crack of bone reached back into the dark places of Bruce’s mind-

_The sickening crack of skull on the sidewalk and silence fell and Mom was so still and there was so much blood-_

He felt light-headed and sick. He was going to pass out. Fuck fuck fuck. He needed to get some air, needed to breathe, the room was too full of people and the smell of alcohol and _fuck fuck fuck_ -

The back door led to a porch, and he stumbled outside, leaning heavily against the wall of the house and sucking in gasping breaths of cold October air, trying to wrestle the memories – the blood, that _sound_ – into the back of his mind.

The back door creaked open.

“Fuck off, Tony,” he choked. He didn’t want to explain anything.

“It’s me,” said Steve quietly. “Tony said to leave you but I just wanted to… check if you needed anything.”

Bruce shook his head. “’m fine,” he muttered, hating how his voice was shaking. “Just being a headcase, as usual.”

Steve shut the door and leaned against the wall beside him. “I was always a really skinny, sickly kid,” he said in a conversational tone. “My mom loved me, but she couldn't look after me. I was left on my own a lot, didn't get enough to eat, didn't have warm clothes. I know now that I was neglected pretty badly.” Steve's tone was matter-of-fact and completely relaxed. “One day, I must have been... seven? Eight? Mom left me in the park by myself whilst she went off someplace. Now I think she was trying to score drugs, but I'm not sure. Anyway, there was this lake in the park, and there were all these toy boats on it, radio-controlled ones, you know? There was this little pier and I leaned off the edge, trying to reach one of the boats, and I fell right in. I couldn't – can't – swim. Drowning was... it was so scary. I can't even describe it. Next thing I know, I'm lying on the grass and I'm soaked and my chest is burning and everything hurts. Some guy saw me go under and pulled me right outta the lake. I got taken away from my mom pretty quick after that.”

Bruce's breathing had eased slightly, but he was still shaking. He put his hands in his pockets. Steve was staring out at the garden as he spoke, not looking at Bruce at all.

“Few years back, I watched the first Lord of the Rings film. I loved it, thought it was awesome. Have you seen it?” Bruce nodded. “So that scene at the end, right, when Frodo's in the boat and Sam runs out to him? And he can't swim? Suddenly it was like... I wasn't watching the film any more. I was back in that lake, and I couldn't breathe and my lungs hurt and everything was going dark. I was shaking so hard I think the whole couch was vibrating. When I got all calmed down I talked to Doctor Hadley about it – she was there before Doctor Skervin – and she told me all about how sometimes even little things can trigger off memories of a trauma. That bit in the film made me remember what it was like to drown. I guess something in this film made you remember something bad?”

Bruce didn't answer for a moment, turning Steve's words over in his mind. He barely knew Steve, and yet he had just opened up to Bruce, had just spilled his guts without seeming to care at all. 

“The sound,” he murmured eventually, his voice hoarse. “Of... of the bone. It sounded... like her head hitting the sidewalk.”

“Oh,” whispered Steve. “I'm so sorry. It's no wonder that's a trigger for you.”

“I don't really know what you mean. About triggers.”

“Hasn't Doctor Skervin told you about them, in therapy?”

Bruce shrugged and shook his head.

“Maybe you should ask her,” Steve suggested. “When I realised why some things made me react like I did, it made everything a little easier. It all made a bit more sense. She was really good about things like that – I used to have panic attacks a lot. Not so much, now.”

Bruce remembered that Grace had described his reaction last week as a panic attack. “I had one of those,” he mumbled. “I think so, anyway.”

“It looked like you had one just now. Did you get all sick and shaky, and feel like you couldn't breathe?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Doctor Hadley, she told me that it's like... your body thinks there's a danger so it has to be ready to fight back or run away, so it releases all this adrenaline to get ready for that. And when I saw someone drowning, and remembered that feeling, or when you heard something that reminded you of... of what happened... your brain sees it as a threat and gets your body ready to deal with it. I dunno if I explained that very well. Sorry. You probably knew all that anyway, you're way smarter than me.”

“No, I – that does make sense...” And it did, in a strange way. It accounted for the way his heart raced, for his problems breathing, for his desire to both kick back against everyone and yet run as far away as possible.

“You're not on your own,” Steve said. “I mean, I don't know what you went through or how you feel, but I know what panic attacks are like.”

“Thanks, Steve. Um. I'm sorry for ruining the evening.” 

“You didn't ruin it. The other three are building a fort out of beer cans and pizza boxes, and they seem to be having fun. You want to be on your own for a bit?”

Bruce blew out a long breath. “Yeah. I'll come in soon. Um. Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” Steve gave him a smile and turned to go back inside.

“Steve?” 

“Yeah?”

Bruce fidgeted a little, looking at his feet. “You want to play chess sometime?”

Steve's smile widened. “Sure thing, Bruce. I'd really like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The internet has taught me that:
> 
> Спасибо - thank you  
> ожалуста - you're welcome  
> до свидания - good bye (formal)  
> Пока - informal
> 
> I'm afraid I could only find translations with Cyrillic characters, so apologies if it throws you off at all.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving at Tony's involves more lasers and explosions than are strictly necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a Brit, Thanksgiving is a puzzling and alien thing to me, so apologies for any egregious oversights.

Playing chess with Steve became a regular thing. Steve never seemed to mind if Bruce didn’t talk, content to play in near silence, their heads bent over the board. In Steve Bruce found a decent opponent; he was as good a strategist as Tony, without Tony’s tendency to rush headlong into a move without thinking out its implications. 

These chess matches gave Bruce something to talk to Doctor Skervin about. His new plan of throwing her scraps of unimportant information seemed to be going well; though he knew she wanted him to open up and talk about his parents, she could no longer complain that he wasn’t talking. He told her about chess with Steve, about Natalya teaching him Russian, about wanting to spend more time with Tony. He grew adept at offering her fragments of emotion, even going so far as to tell her a little about Betty – nothing important, nothing even close to opening up about his feelings towards her (those were confusing, secret, and private), nothing about holding her hand or wanting to kiss her. Instead he talked about her dad not wanting her to be friends with boys and, when Doctor Skervin tried to steer him into conversation about _his_ dad, he talked about how Betty wanted to go to Harvard as well.

It was almost fun, stringing the adults along, lulling them into thinking he was cooperating with them. 

Meanwhile, he had followed up on Steve’s hints about panic attacks. He had found a lot of information on the internet and, whilst he ruthlessly ignored the suggestions for seeking counselling, he read up on possible breathing exercises. At first they had seemed stupid, just waffling New Age crap, but once he found a site offering a biological explanation for the exercises, he decided to give them a go.

At first he had felt ridiculous, sitting on his narrow bed with his eyes closed and thinking about breathing, and he gave up on the exercise several times. Eventually, though, it fell into place.

It was innocuous, what started it. He had shut himself in his room to do his homework when he realised, like a lightning bolt to his brain, that it was exactly two months since his mom had been killed. Two months. Eight weeks. Fifty six days. Over one thousand three hundred and forty four hours since he had last heard her voice, seen her face… and suddenly he realised he couldn’t remember them. Couldn’t remember the exact last thing she had said to him; had it been, “Run”? Or perhaps just his name? He couldn’t remember how she said his name, how her mouth shaped the word. He couldn’t remember the exact shade of her hair or how she moved her hands. He couldn’t remember, it was gone, he’d never again have those details that had seemed so pointless but were so _important_ …

His hands were shaking. His chest hurt. He couldn’t breathe.

_Panic attack_ , he thought distantly. _Breathe, you need to breathe – it’s like an experiment, think of it as experiment, you’re gathering data, gathering evidence on the best way to control this… It’s a normal biological reaction to stress… it’s adrenaline… you can control it…_

That made it easier. He could do that. He could think of his body in biological terms, could track its reactions to stimulus. He sat up straight, closed his eyes, put one hand flat on his belly and the other over his breastbone, the better to feel what was happening.

_Sigh gently. Releasing a little air lets your intercostal muscles relax, your ribcage drops inwards, your diaphragm relaxes, moving up to decrease the volume in your chest…_

_Close your mouth. Pause. Three… two… one…_

_Inhale slowly through your nose, pushing your stomach out… your diaphragm and intercostal muscles contract, increasing the volume in the chest so the lungs can expand… pressure inside the chest is lowered … air is sucked in through your nose, travels down your windpipe to your lungs… it passes through the bronchial tubes to the alveoli … oxygen passes into the capillaries … haemoglobin helps to move oxygen into the blood… oxygenated blood is carried through a capillary network to the pulmonary vein, delivering it to the left side of the heart, which pumps the blood to the rest of the body…_

Bruce followed the process in his mind’s eye, seeing the muscles contract and relax, seeing the oxygen travel through his body, imagined his heart steadily pumping. Gradually his breathing settled, his heart rate slowing, and he could open his eyes. He was left feeling limp and exhausted, a tingling sensation in his fingers and lips, but triumph glimmered in the back of his mind. He’d managed to ward off a full blown attack with nothing but a modicum of knowledge and not a hint of counselling.

He didn’t let himself think about his mom again that evening.

*

“I’m gonna have people over for Thanksgiving,” Tony announced one weekend.

Bruce looked up from where he was tinkering with the robot’s engine, trying to improve its steering capabilities so it wouldn’t just run into walls. “Huh?”

“Thanksgiving dinner. Next week. Dad’s fucking off to Japan, apparently, and Mom’s going with him. I asked Jarvis, he said it’s cool if we do the whole epic dinner and such. You’re coming, right?”

“Er…” Bruce had been trying to ignore the holiday season. Thanksgiving did not appeal to him most years, but this year it seemed almost farcical. What the hell did he have to be thankful about? 

“C’moooon, Brucey! I want to celebrate this most dubious of holidays with you! You can’t have other plans, surely?”

“Who else is coming?” Bruce asked. The idea of spending an evening with Tony’s many acquaintances from Green Fields, of seeing people from his old life, did not appeal at all.

Tony fixed him with a hard look. “I’m not gonna shove lots of people at you, dude. I know you’re weird about that. I’m getting Thor over – his family doesn’t do Thanksgiving, so he just wants in on the “feasting”. Figured I’d ask those guys from movie night – Barton was pretty cool, and Miss Russia. I guess Rogers can come too, if he’s not gonna be a buzzkill.” 

“Um. Okay. Though they’ll probably have things with their own families, won’t they? Clint and Natalya, anyway.”

Tony waved a hand. “Whatever, I’ve asked ‘em anyway. If they blow me off it’ll be me, you, Thor and a fucking massive turkey. Can’t complain. So you’re in, right?”

Bruce sighed, turning back to the engine. “Yeah, I’m in.”

* 

“Four whole days of Dad’s old hunting buddy,” Betty sighed miserably on the last day of school. “The same old stories every time, about how they shot some poor deer in the head without killing her and then had to track her for hours. It’s going to be _awful_.” 

“Sounds it,” Bruce agreed. “Rather you than me.”

“Yeah. I apologise in advance for the whiny texts I’ll probably send.” They had swapped cell numbers not long after they’d started walking Leo regularly, and Betty would often text him with silly comments or observations. Bruce’s stomach swooped pleasantly every time.

“I forgive you.”

“Ugh, Drake’ll be bringing his son, too. Matt. He’s seventeen and he’s just _gross_. He’s going into the army and Dad thinks he’s the best. His whole thing about ‘not spending time with boys’ doesn't seem to apply to the wannabe army creep.”

Anger glimmered at the edge of Bruce’s mind. “Does he bother you?” he asked.

“Oh, he just makes stupid comments. It’s okay, I can deal with him. You don’t need to get all knight in shining armour on me.” She smiled and jostled his elbow, and Bruce felt himself blush. “So what are you doing for Thanksgiving? I’ve been moaning; yours will probably be worse.”

“Probably not, actually. I’m going to Tony’s. His parents are away, so a few friends are going.”

“Aw man, that sounds so much better. I’m jealous.”

“You should sneak out and come,” he said. He suspected that Tony wouldn’t mind. Or if he did, he could suck it up. 

Betty smiled. “Thanks, but I’ll be lucky to get five minutes to myself all weekend. I’m glad you’re doing something fun, though. You deserve a break.”

*

Thanksgiving at home had never been much fun for Bruce. The house had been filled with even more tension than usual, his mom frantic and on-edge as she tried to make dinner for the three of them, knowing that it would never be good enough. His dad would either shut himself away and work, or he would watch the football. Either way, he would be drinking from mid-morning. 

Bruce never got out of Thanksgiving unscathed. 

Thanksgiving at Tony’s, by contrast, was a great deal more fun. Clint and Natalya had both got permission to come along, and Steve had looked very pleased to be included in the invitation. Thor was an immediate hit with his huge, loud enthusiasm for absolutely everything, and Tony thoroughly enjoyed showing off his house, clearly pleased by Clint’s appreciation. Steve looked a little overwhelmed by how huge the place was, and Natalya betrayed no hint of emotion at all, but Clint and Thor seemed to enjoy their grand tour of Stark Mansion.

“This is War Bastard,” Tony said when they were all gathered in the lab to see the robot. “He’s my baby. Well, mine and Bruce’s.”

“You guys have a baby?” Clint sniggered.

“I’m the dad,” Bruce told him. Tony gave him a filthy look.

“Yeah, that’s right, I’m the mom, I did all the hard work,” he said. “So who wants a laser demonstration?”

“It has _lasers_?”

“Is it safe?” Steve asked worriedly, seemingly unaffected by Clint’s enthusiasm.

“Who cares?!”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Tony said. “Well. Safe enough. Right, Bruce?”

“We’ve not actually tested the lasers yet-“

“Pfft,” Tony flapped a hand. “The big problem with lasers is blooming, and the electromagnetic pulse kind of removes that problem. We’ll do it from a distance.”

“I like to see lasers,” Natalya offered from where she was studying the robot with more interest than she had shown the rest of the house.

“As would I,” Thor offered. “It would be most exciting!”

“Outnumbered, Rogers,” Tony said gleefully, giving Steve a wack on the arm. “Never mind. C’mon, Warry, let’s get you to your testing zone.”

Bruce sighed and pulled a bunch of safety goggles out of a drawer, handing them to everyone. Tony scowled at him, so Bruce forced them over his head himself, ignoring Tony’s flailing protests.

“I hate you,” he said petulantly.

“Set a good example for the kids,” Bruce told him.

“What’s the robot _for_?” Steve asked as Tony and Bruce set it up. 

“It’s for lasers!” Clint exclaimed, sounding put out that Steve continued to miss this crucial point. 

“Correct,” Tony said, pointing at Clint. “You. I like you. You can stay.”

“Why, though?”

“Because lasers are awesome, Steve! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You should create another robot,” Thor offered cheerfully. “And then they can battle!”

“Thor can stay too,” said Tony. “That is an _awesome_ idea. We’ll stage our own Robot Wars. Whaddaya think, Brucey?”

“So long as I get to name the next one,” Bruce said. “Okay, I think we’re ready.” 

“Excellent. Go sort the target out, Big Guy, I’ll set up the camera.”

A few minutes later the smoke was starting to clear. Tony was grinning like a madman, Clint was laughing hysterically, and Steve was taking great breaths on his inhaler. Natalya poked at the remnants of their target, and it dissolved into ash at her feet.

“Was this meant to happen?” she asked curiously.

“Um. It wasn’t meant to be that powerful,” Bruce said, pulling off his goggles. “In fact, I think _someone_ probably messed around with the electromagnetic pulses without telling me, naming no names, _Tony_.”

“Aw, c’mon man, that was _awesome_!” Tony crowed. “Seriously, seriously awesome. Damn, I am putting Laser Test #1 down as a complete, resounding success. Fuck me sideways.”

“Best. Thanksgiving. Ever,” Clint agreed.

“Are explosions part of Thanksgiving?” Thor asked.

“They really should be.”

Dinner was a loud affair. Really there should have been far too much food just for the seven of them (Tony insisted on Jarvis joining them, which he did with as much grace as he could muster), but Thor, Clint and, unexpectedly, Steve, appeared to be bottomless pits where food was concerned. Bruce found himself talking to Natalya and receiving an impromptu lesson on Russian food vocabulary. On his other side Jarvis was telling Thor and Steve about different holidays and their traditions in England, and inquiring about life in Norway. Clint and Tony were building what appeared to be a trebuchet for their roast potatoes. Clint had a frighteningly good aim.

“Right,” Tony said after dinner, once they’d all cleared their plates and were regretting their second (third, even fourth) helpings. “Next up, movies! Any suggestions?”

“Charlie Brown,” Clint said immediately, and Steve nodded.

“Charlie Brown,” he agreed. “Though I normally watch football.”

“No football,” Tony said. “This is a football free zone. Hm. Thanksgiving movies. Not Christmas movies. No Christmas before December. Help me out here, Brucey.”

“I never watched movies on Thanksgiving.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot, your Thanksgivings are made of misery.” Steve shot Tony a sharp look at that, but Bruce just rolled his eyes and flicked a pea at Tony’s face. 

“I would like to watch football,” Thor volunteered. 

“I don’t mind,” Clint agreed. “Football’s not my thing, but it’s pretty good.”

“That is four to two,” Natalya said.

Tony scowled at her. “You like football?” he complained.

She shrugged. “I do not mind. I am happy to watch.”

“You’re all philistines,” Tony complained. “Right. I need alcohol if there’s going to be sports involved. After that it’s Charlie Brown, alright? Everyone loves Charlie Brown.”

“I do not know Charlie Brown,” Thor said, sounding confused.

“You’re gonna love him, Thor. He’s basically Bruce.”

“Does that make you Snoopy?” Bruce asked.

“Sure, why not? Snoopy’s the best character.”

Thor still looked confused, and Clint patted him on the arm in commiseration. “Don’t worry about it, dude.”

For all his complaints, Tony got very involved with the football game. They all did, in fact, and Bruce was content to sit back and watch his friends ( _friends_ , he thought in vague surprise, _plural_ ) shout at the television.

Halfway through the game, his cell buzzed in his pocket with a text from Betty.

_Happy Thanksgiving! Everyone is watching the game. I am so bored but too full of turkey to move._

_That sounds remarkably similar to my situation. Not so bored though._

_Oh god don’t tell me you like football? I thought you’d be on my side!_

_I don’t like football, but watching these guys shout and get mad at a bunch of guys running round with a ball is pretty fun. Too full of turkey to care._

_Hah. I’m glad you’re having a good day. Mine’s been bearable. I kicked Matt under the table when he tried to put his hand on my waist and he’s ignoring me now._

_Good. Maybe you should kick him again, just to make sure he learned._

_LOL. I’ll see if the first lesson sunk in first. I g2g dad is asking who I’m texting. Enjoy the rest of the day! :)_

_You too. Hope you survive the football._

“Bruce, stop texting your girlfriend!” Tony exclaimed, poking him in the arm. “C’mon, man, the Packers are winning!”

“I thought you didn’t care,” Bruce said, pocketing his phone. “And she’s not my girlfriend.”

“I changed my mind. I care now.”

“You only care because Clint is supporting other team,” Natalya pointed out, clicking open another drink.

“That’s as valid as reason as any.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Clint moaned. He and Steve were supporting the Cowboys, and were becoming sunk in despair. Tony, it seemed, was supporting the Packers purely out of a desire to be contrary. Thor was alternatively shouting for whichever team had the ball and complaining that American football was not as exciting as his preferred sports of soccer and rugby.

“You’re in America now,” Tony told him. “We don’t hold with that kind of talk.”

Bruce hadn't seen A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving since he was very young, and was surprised by how much of the movie he remembered. Clint and Steve were clearly big fans, but Thor _loved_ it. He gave frequent, booming laughs and demanded to know if there were more Charlie Brown movies. It was honestly more fun to watch Thor's delighted reactions than to watch the movie itself. Bruce wondered what it was like to feel such unbridled enthusiasm for seemingly everything.

After the movie they went outside. It was a cold, dry night, and there was a fire pit in Tony's huge backyard. They wrapped themselves in blankets and Tony began to roll joints. Steve pursed his lips, looking disapproving, but didn't say anything, simply declining the joint whenever it was offered to him. Thor had never smoked weed before, but he was as enthusiastic about trying it as he had been about everything else so far. He coughed on his first drag and joined in their laughter, beaming.

“We should do this again,” Tony said at one point, grinning round at them all. “Hey, Big Guy, it's your birthday in a few weeks. Let's do this again. Get a few more people, get the pool open. It'll be awesome.”

“Hell yeah,” agreed Clint. “We should definitely do that, Bruce.”

Bruce shrugged, feeling too loose-limbed to protest. He hadn't even considered that his birthday was coming up. “Sure,” he said.

Bruce didn't speak much, content to let the drug coil through his mind and listen to the others talk. He hunched down in his blanket, watching the way the firelight flickered over their faces, the way Natasha's curls glimmered when she moved her head; the small smile on Steve's thin face; Thor's hair golden and his teeth white; Tony's long-fingered, expressive hands dancing through the air as he spoke; Clint's eyes almost vanishing in the crinkles of his smile. The twisting, simmering, ever-present rage and misery at the back of Bruce's mind seemed to settle, retreating back so he could not touch it, and it was the most content he had felt in weeks.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's birthday is much better than expected. Christmas... not so much.

“ _Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you-_ ”

“Tony-”

“ _happy birthday dear Bruuuuu-uuuuuuce-”_

_“Tony-”_

_“Happy birthday....! Toooooo...! Yoooooooou....!”_

“Hello, Tony.”

“Happy birthday, Big Guy! How does it feel, being fifteen? Does it suck, or is it awesome?”

“It feels tired. It's three a.m and you just woke me up.”

“Yeah, and whilst you're resting your curly old head, I'm getting everything ready for your birthday bash.”

“Tony,” Bruce muttered, trying to instil a warning note in his voice. “Tony, what are you doing? I don't want anything-”

“Fear not, dude, I'm not actually putting in all that effort. I lied. I'm actually playing Call of Duty and have been for the last four hours. I've got alcohol, music, a pool, and lots of take out menus. We're all sorted for later. Oh, and Rogers has agreed to be the sober companion in case anyone decides to almost drown themselves.”

Bruce remembered Steve's story about almost drowning, and hoped that no one would be an idiot where the pool was concerned. At least it wouldn't be him.

“Alright, so long as you've not got any surprises waiting.”

“Well, I've got a stripper cake. Does that count as a surprise? Betty won't mind a stripper cake will she?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I'm going back to sleep, Tony.”

“Ugh, apparently you're boring at fifteen. Fine, whatever, see you later.”

Bruce shut his cell off and turned over, hoping that Tony hadn't actually decided to hire strippers. You never really knew, with Tony.

*

It was, to put it lightly, a disaster.

“I'm sorry!” Clint wailed again. “I didn't know they'd actually _show up_!”

“You are _so_ not my favourite any more,” Tony told him, prodding him in the chest. “Really, _really_ not my favourite.”

“I just got excited! Anyway, your house is fucking huge, it can hold all these people!”

“Sure it can. Not the point, Barton. Bruce hates people. People and Bruce do not go together. And you just brought people to Bruce's birthday.”

“I didn't bring them. I may have, you know, mentioned that a party was happening, to a couple of people, and it may have got... passed around school...”

“It's okay, Tony,” Bruce muttered. “It was a mistake. It doesn't matter.”

It did matter. It mattered quite a lot. His heart was pounding and his hands were shaking and he was trying very, very hard to keep breathing and not have a panic attack right there in the middle of the den. Music was blaring around them and there were crowds of people from Sandworth, drinking and laughing and having a good time. It was fucking awful.

Tony glared at Clint for a little longer. “Fine,” he said eventually. “But I'm watching you, Barton. You okay, Bruce?”

“Yeah, I'm fine, honestly.”

“Right. I'm gonna go make sure no one got into the lab and yell at people in the pool. I'll come find you in a bit, okay?”

“I'm _really_ sorry, man,” Clint said once Tony had gone. “I swear to God I wouldn't have said anything if I'd known.”

“Clint, it's fine. Seriously, don't worry.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure. Look, I'm just gonna... go outside for a minute, get some air. I'll see you in a bit.”

Clint looked doubtful, but Bruce quickly slipped away before he could say anything else. He needed to get out of the house. It was too full and too loud, everything closing in on him. 

Hardly anybody was outside, and Bruce was suddenly grateful to have a December birthday. At least most people were staying inside where it was warm. There was a small group of people gathered around the fire pit – judging by the booming laugh coming from that direction, Thor was among them – so Bruce headed in the other direction. There was a set of stairs leading to one of the mansion's back doors, one used by the staff who had been given the night off, and it was secluded enough for his purposes.

The noise of the party was still almost too loud, with the thump of the music and the voices of dozens of people. Bruce put his forehead on his knees and wrapped his arms around his head, trying to block out the sound enough that he could actually concentrate on breathing properly. It was hardly the best position to be in, but he couldn't focus otherwise.

“Bruce?” 

He jumped, head jerking up so fast he cricked his neck. “Oh.” Hot embarassment flooded through him at the sight of Betty. God, had she just caught him hiding from his own birthday party? “Hey,” he mumbled, unsure what to say. 

She came and sat beside him, wrapping her arms loosely around her knees. “Bit loud in there,” she offered.

“Yeah. A bit.”

“I'm guessing all these people weren't supposed to show up?” 

Bruce glanced at her, and smiled humourlessly. “Clint apparently can't keep his mouth shut.”

“Ah. I'm sorry your party's been ruined.” She paused, picking at invisible lint on her jeans. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“That's okay. I'm glad you could come.”

“Well. I, er, I lied to Dad. Told him I was at Marie's. She didn't want to come, so she's covering for me.”

Bruce remembered his run-in with Marie and felt slightly bad. “That's nice of her.”

“Yeah. She's great.”

“Are you... are you cold? You don't have to stay out here with me. I'm just being stupid.”

“I'm okay. D'you want to be by yourself? I can go-”

“No. No, I – stay.” God, he really needed to learn how to control his blushing.

“Okay,” she said agreeably. “I never said, actually. Happy birthday. Um. I got you a present, but it's inside.”

“Oh. Wow, I – thanks. You didn't have to.”

“It's okay, it's not very exciting. I wanted to get you something.”

There was a strange ache in Bruce's chest, as though something heavy were sat on his sternum. Betty was right _there_ , once again willing to spend time with him, to sit outside in the cold, having lied to her dad, just to be with him even though he was being awkward and stupid. She was leaning back slightly now, her weight on her hands, and if he just dropped his own hands he could touch hers...

“This house is amazing,” Betty said. “I can't imagine growing up somewhere this big.”

“It's pretty crazy,” Bruce agreed. “Tony's room is basically the size of my old house. I tell him it's because he needs somewhere to keep his ego.”

Betty laughed, her cheeks dimpling. “He seems alright actually,” she said. “I mean, I've only spoken to him once, but he was okay.”

“Oh God, what did he say to you? I'm sorry for anything he said.”

“No, no, it was fine, honestly! I kind of expected him to be more...”

“Dickish?”

“Yeah, maybe. That's really mean, isn't it? He's hosting this whole thing.”

Bruce shrugged, smiling. “It's okay, I'm mean to Tony all the time. He knows I don't mean it.” He twisted his hands together with a sigh. “I guess I should go back in.”

“Why? You don't have to if you don't want to.”

“I feel stupid. I just – I don't like lots of people, especially if I don't know them. I never have.”

“That's not stupid. Lots of people feel like that. I do, all the time. I came out here to find you, but it was still a relief to get away from everyone for a bit.”

“I just... I just wanted this to be my... my friends. You know? This is -” he hesitated, then ploughed on. “This is the first time I've actually had friends other than Tony. The last few months have been shitty, completely and utterly shitty, but I've made friends. I don't really... do that, very easily.”

Betty shifted a little closer, and God her shoulder was against his and the ache in his chest intensified. “I wish I'd been able to meet you without all this crap happening,” she said quietly. “It's not fair. I... I think you're really brave, you know. I wouldn't be able to... to go to school and make friends or do _anything_ if I'd had to go through this.”

Bruce swallowed. “I'm not brave. I just... don't really have a choice. And sometimes things like... like going to school or hanging out with Tony or... or walking the dog with you, they're something I can … grab onto. Otherwise I'd just think about what happened and nothing else, and I don't want to.”

“God, I'm sorry, I probably just brought up loads of miserable stuff. I'm sorry, I know you don't want to talk about it.”

“It's okay.” Bruce fidgeted again, twisting his hands over and over. “I- I've been pretty mean to you a couple of times, but you – you always come talk to me. You didn't have to, Mr Coulson just landed you in it. I just – thanks for sticking with me.”

“I'm not doing it because Coulson asked me, or because I think I have to. I hang out with you because I _like_ you.” Her tone was fierce, and she fixed him with a steady gaze, pushing her hair behind her ear. 

She seemed to be waiting for something. “I don't-” Bruce began, and she sighed.

“Marie told me you need hitting with a cluebat,” she said, then reached over and gently untangled his hands from their twisting motion, twining her fingers with his. He froze, staring at their hands.

“I – Betty?” he looked at her helplessly, hope surging in his chest but not daring to actually believe it. She squeezed his hand, and he tentatively squeezed back. 

“Can I kiss you?” she asked, and Bruce suspected he looked ridiculous, gaping at her in utter shock, but he managed to nod, and possibly make a squeaky sound of affirmation. She looked nervous but determined, leaning in and gently pressing her lips to his.

It didn't last long, just a brief, careful brush of a kiss. Betty's lips were soft and slightly cold, and Bruce's stomach was doing gymnastics, his hands were shaking, and his mind was empty of any thought except _oh my god she's kissing me oh god what do I do this is happening this is actually happening don't fuck up whatever you do-_

Betty pulled back and smiled at him shyly. “Was that okay?” she asked.

“You kissed me.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, her smile spreading. “Was it okay?”

“It was amazing. Oh my God.”

“I got a bit bored of waiting for _you_ to kiss _me_.”

“What?” 

“Bruce! I held your hand _weeks_ ago! We've been going out by ourselves for ages! I thought I was being painfully obvious.”

“I – um. No? I had no idea. I was pretty much just amazed that you were talking to me at all.”

Her smile slipped a little, and a sad look passed over her face. She squeezed his hand tightly again. “You have an idea now though, right?”

“Um. Yes? That was obvious enough even for me. Though I'm not really sure what to do now.”

“You could kiss me again?” Betty suggested, tilting her chin up. 

That seemed like an incredibly good idea.

Bruce lost track of how long he and Betty stayed outside. They kissed some more, growing a little more confident, laughing as their noses bumped together. Betty's hair was silky between his fingers, so different from his own thick, slightly coarse curls, and the contrast between her cold lips and her warm mouth sent sparks through his mind. Eventually, though, Bruce began to lose feeling in his toes, and he realised that Betty was shivering slightly.

“I'm sorry,” he said, mortified. “You're frozen. We should go in.”

“I'm okay. I wasn't exactly complaining. It sounds a bit quieter in there now, though.”

Bruce got to his feet, his limbs stiff from being sat for so long, and helped Betty up. For a moment they just looked at one another, smiling bashfully, and then she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him. Bruce froze for a moment, unsure what to do with his hands, then settled them tentatively on her back.

“I don't really want to... tell anyone, except maybe our friends,” she said, pulling away. She worried her lower lip in her teeth. “About... this. Whatever it is. Not yet.”

“Nor do I,” Bruce said quickly, because he didn't, he wanted to keep this close and secret, not let anyone else in on it. “That's fine.”

“God. My dad would flip.” Betty didn't sound particularly concerned about that. In fact, the idea seemed to appeal to her. “But... I don't know what... what this is. How this works.”

Bruce twisted his hands together, awkwardness settling over him like an unwelcome blanket. “I don't know either,” he said. “I don't – I've only just managed to get more than one friend. I don't know anything about.. girlfriends. Not that you're my girlfriend.”

Betty put her hands over his, stilling their nervous movements. “I'd like to be,” she said, her quiet voice tentative. “If... if that's what you want as well.”

“Really?” he said, and hated that his voice chose that moment to squeak. Betty smiled, squeezed his hands.

“Yep,” she said. “Really. Now c'mon, let's go get warm.”

Rounding the house, they found a group of people toasting marshmallows over the firepit. Tony looked up when they approached.

“You found him! Nice one, Betty. Come sit down, pull up a blanket.”

“Where is everyone?” Bruce asked.

“They left,” Tony said with a shrug. “I lied and told 'em Dad was on his way back. Thor did this whole thing where he looked intimidating, and I'm pretty sure Natalya made some guys wet themselves when they didn't want to leave.”

Natalya, who was barely visible beneath the blanket she had wrapped around herself, snorted. “Very rude,” she said. “I have no time for them.”

“Good job,” Betty told her, and Natalya smiled at her from inside her cocoon.

“Are you alright, Bruce?” Steve asked, edging over to make room for them. 

“Yeah, I'm okay. Um. Sorry for freaking out.”

“No apologies needed,” Tony said, waving an airy hand. “Not from you, anyway. I think Barton still owes you, though.”

“I come bearing beer,” Clint said, coming out of the house carrying a crate. “Does that help?”

“Would you like marshmallows?” Thor boomed across the firepit. “They are most delicious!”

“Ooh, yes please,” Betty said, leaning forward to snag the skewers and marshmallows Thor offered them.

Between the blankets, the beer, the fire and the fact that Betty was holding his hand beneath the blanket, Bruce soon began to warm up. Tony led everyone in an off-key and embarrassing rendition of “Happy Birthday”, and then presented him with a cake he had apparently tried to make himself. It was extremely dense and rather disgusting (to everyone barring Thor), but the fact that Tony had _made him a cake_ made Bruce's eyes sting rather alarmingly.

“My birthday's in January,” Clint said through a mouthful of marshmallows. “Gotta do something for that.”

“Yeah, and this time you _can_ invite all the people,” Tony said. “So, Barton's next. Then who?”

“Me?” said Natalya's voice from inside her blankets. “March twenty-two.”

“July fourth,” said Steve.

“No it isn't,” Tony said immediately. 

“It is.”

“Seriously? Independence Day is your birthday? Ugh, that's awesome, you get a holiday and fireworks. One day I'll make my birthday a national holiday. May Tenth: Tony Stark Day.”

“Oh God,” Bruce muttered. “What will we have to do? Wear masks of your face?”

“Ew no, that would be weird. Like Anonymous, except... me. Nah, it'll just be to celebrate how great I am. Kids will write essays on it in schools: The Great Achievements of Tony Stark, Best Guy Ever.”

“Of course you'd be a diabolical ruler,” Steve said.

“Diabolical? No! I'd be beloved by all. Including _you_ , Stars 'n' Stripes.”

Really, Bruce thought to himself as he tugged the thick blanket tighter around himself, despite everything, it had been quite a good birthday.

*

Christmas was miserable.

Of course, that was hardly a surprise. Bruce was used to miserable Christmases; he still remembered his father’s wrath on discovering that he had built a complex model, remembered his five year old self’s _pain fear confusion_ and anger stirred at the back of his mind. Christmas in a group home for troubled kids who weren’t wanted by any families? Yeah, it was going to be miserable.

The general misery wasn’t helped by Tony’s family whisking him off to Malibu as they did every Christmas, though Bruce had no patience whatsoever for Tony’s griping and moaning about spending the holiday with his family in their amazing Malibu mansion. Usually he sympathised with Tony’s difficult, distant relationship with his parents, but sometimes he thought he needed a bit of fucking perspective. 

Bruce also hadn’t been able to see Betty much since the party. She’d come to see him a couple of days afterwards, Leo in tow, and they’d gone for a walk. She’d told him that her dad was taking her out of state to see her grandparents for the holiday.

“We don’t see them much,” she said apologetically. “They’re really old and can’t travel. I’ve not seen them since I was about ten. We’ll be coming back after new years.” 

Then she’d kissed him again and promised that she’d come see him as soon as she was back, and that had cheered him up a bit.

He and Steve had been allowed to go to Clint’s the day before Christmas Eve. Thor and Natalya had joined them, and they’d played an increasingly raucous game of Risk, which involved a great deal of backstabbing and betrayal (mostly from Clint and Natalya). Thor had been stampeding ahead for most of the game, taking great swathes of the board, until Steve had announced, simply, “I win.” 

“Impossible!” Thor boomed.

“ _How_?” Clint demanded.

“He right,” Natalya said, peering at the board. Steve had gradually claimed and held onto territories without anyone really noticing, since they had all been distracted by Thor’s exuberant playing style.

Bruce pushed his glasses up his nose. He had been knocked out of the game first – clearly he had no particular knack for world domination. “Sneaky, Steve,” he commented.

Steve shrugged, smiling slightly. “It’s just tactics. Like a different type of chess.”

“This is an outrage,” Thor exclaimed. “I have never lost this game, not even to Loki!”

“Guess you’re one of us mere mortals now, Thor,” Clint said, elbowing him lightly. 

Thor shook his head in bewilderment, then shook Steve’s hand in a crushing grip. “Congratulations on your victory, friend Steve,” he said. “You are a worthy opponent.”

“Uh. Thanks?”

Clint’s foster dad had made a huge bowl of chilli for them and asked Natalya about her recent dance exam before chatting to Steve and Thor about football. Bruce watched him surreptitiously; this was what dads were supposed to be like, he supposed. Mr Ayre’s casual laughter set him on edge. He knew now that Clint and Barney were unusually lucky; boys were far less likely to be fostered than girls, and teenage boys almost never found a permanent placement. There weren’t many people like Mr and Mrs Ayre willing to take on troubled adolescent boys, and Bruce supposed he couldn’t blame them. Seeing Clint joke around with his foster dad created a curious ache behind Bruce’s ribs.

*

Christmas day itself was torturous. The Three Oaks staff members had clearly attempting to make the day festive: there were small presents for everyone and a large dinner with roast ham. Christmas music played throughout the house and Christmas films were shown on the television in the rec room. It was something of a losing battle though, as Christmas was a day almost guaranteed to hold bad memories for their residents. Heidi flipped out in the rec room when “It's A Wonderful Life” began to play on the television, screaming and swearing and lashing out at anyone that came near her. Henry locked himself in his room and absolutely refused to come out for most of the day. Laura began to cry over dinner, sobbing that she wanted her mom, and had had to be led from the room to calm down.

The smell of roast ham curling through the house turned Bruce’s stomach. He ran his fingers over a small, shiny burn mark on his inner arm, an innocuous remnant of having his arm held over the stove for a forgotten misdemeanour. Mom had stopped it before it had gotten too far, and had finished off Christmas dinner with blood drying beneath her nose.

Bruce didn’t eat anything at dinner, just pushed his food around the plate and tried not to sink too far into his memories. 

Even Steve was subdued. He and Bruce played a couple of silent games of chess after dinner, and Bruce won far too easily. Steve congratulated him quietly, and then excused himself to go to bed. 

Mark had gone on an afternoon visit with his cousin who was on leave from the army, and he returned to Three Oaks with his social worker, a dark, fierce look on his face. From the yelling that came from Grace’s office, Bruce guessed that the cousin hadn’t shown up. Mark had stormed into the rec room and promptly got into an argument with Jacqueline, laughing at her as she spat insults at him. Tom told them to knock it off and tried to split them up, and Jacqueline stormed from the room, deliberately shoving over the bookcase as she went. Bruce barely avoided having the bookcase land on his head.

“ _Mrowl_ ,” Mark laughed.

“You are such a prick,” Bruce snapped. He had been avoiding Mark as much as possible, but that hadn’t stopped the increase in their animosity. “Just fuck off and leave everyone alone.”

“What’s up, freak? Why you standing up for Jackie? You want a piece of that? I bet you do, bet you jerk off thinking about her right? She’d better watch out, never know when you’ll snap and slam her head into the sidew-“

Bruce shoved him in the chest, hard. “Shut the fuck up,” he snarled, and his voice didn’t even sound like his. Something brutal and animal was howling in his chest, and he barely noticed as Mark’s fist collided with his cheek – it was a pathetic punch, nothing like the dizzying blows Bruce knew so well, and he almost laughed, drawing his arm back, wanting to feel Mark’s cheek crunch under his knuckles, wanting to make him _stop_ -

Suddenly Tom was dragging him back and someone else was pulling Mark away. Bruce fought against Tom’s grip, twisting his arm to try and get loose.

“Leave it Bruce. C’mon. You’re okay. Come with me, that’s it-“

Tom took him to an unfamiliar office. Bruce yanked his arm from his grip and paced the room, clenching and unclenching his fists. His cheek throbbed.

“Why is he such a prick?” he demanded.

Tom sighed. “He had a rough day. He was looking for someone to take it out on. I’ll get some ice for your face.”

“It’s not that bad.” 

“Still, better to be safe. Wait here.”

Bruce paced the room as the boiling anger gradually subsided into a resentful simmer at the back of his mind. When Tom returned with an icepack, he threw himself into a chair.

“I fucking hate Christmas,” he muttered.

Tom’s face twisted into something close to a smile. “You’re not alone. I told Grace what happened, that Mark was provoking you and Jacqueline, and that he hit you.”

Bruce eyed Tom warily, squinting slightly as he had removed his glasses to put on the icepack. “Am I gonna be in trouble? Again?”

“I dunno. I’d guess not – you might get a talking to. You didn’t start anything, and you didn’t hit him.”

“I wanted to.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t. And you’ve not caused any trouble lately either.”

Bruce snorted, and Tom laughed.

“I guess it’s worth keeping your nose clean to be able to see your buddies, huh? That was the only thing that kept me from causing chaos at school every day when I was your age. I kept outta trouble, I could hang out with friends.”

Bruce shrugged. 

“I know the holiday sucks, man. It sucks for everyone here, and the first year is always the worst. Trust me.”

Bruce didn’t. The idea that he’d have more Christmases at Three Oaks filled him with dread.

He went to bed soon after and lay on top of the covers staring at the dark ceiling as the house quietened down. Soon, all he could hear was the creaking of the pipes and the soft, choked sobbing of Laura in the room above him. His cell phone buzzed with text messages (Tony, Betty, Clint, Tony, Natalya, Tony, Tony, Betty, Tony), but he didn’t open them. He felt on-edge, his skin too tight. His room seemed to stink of roast ham – of burning skin – and he scrambled off the bed and shoved open his window, taking in great gulps of frozen air. The house felt full, too full, of the sounds and smells of a celebration that just meant pain and misery to everyone under the roof. 

In the room above, Laura’s sobs faded away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to the people who are reading this fic, especially those of you who kudos or leave comments - they are very much appreciated <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's back to school, but it's not all smooth sailing.

All things considered, Bruce was almost glad to get back to school. He'd barely been able to leave Three Oaks during the Christmas break, with Tony stuck in Malibu, Betty tied up with her grandparents, and Clint and Natalya kept busy by their own families. He and Steve played a lot of chess and watched a lot of movies, but by the beginning of January Bruce felt like he had cabin fever.

As the school bus rumbled through Oakwood towards Sandworth High, Bruce suddenly realised that he had a problem. He had two classes with Betty, and he had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to... _be_ with her, after his birthday. What would she be expecting? She'd sent him a text the previous night saying, _Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow :) x_ , and he'd replied that he was looking forward to seeing her too, which was the truth, but suddenly being faced with the reality of it made his stomach churn with nerves. She added kisses to the end of every text now, which was... nice, but did that mean she wanted him to kiss her more? Not that he was exactly opposed to that – he actually wanted to kiss her again quite badly – but school wasn't exactly private. 

_She said she didn't want to tell anyone yet_ , he reminded himself. _Her dad would freak out if he knew. She wants to keep it secret._

So maybe they would just... carry on as normal, and he wouldn't have to worry about somehow messing up kissing her in public or anything. Hopefully. 

*

“Hey,” Betty said as he slid into his seat in World Lit. “How was your break?”

“Um. Not too bad once we got Christmas day over and done with. How about you?”

“It was okay. It was nice to see Grandpa and Grandma, but it was pretty boring. They don't have internet at all, so I read a lot of books.”

“That's very cultured.”

“Oh, yes. I was so bored at one point I read an entire cook book from cover to cover and then ate a whole pack of Oreos in about ten minutes.”

Bruce laughed, and just like that things seemed normal. They worked together analysing a poem, chatting easily, and the only suggestion of something _more_ was in the way Betty would give him small, secretive little smiles and let their hands brush together on the desk. 

At breaktime they went to the library to find some books for their English assignment, and Betty steered him into a corner between a few bookshelves.

“Sorry,” she said, releasing his arm. “I just wanted to – I just wanted to make sure you knew I hadn't... changed my mind. After your birthday, I mean.”

“Oh! No, I – that's good. Um. I wasn't really sure what to... to do.”

“Neither was I,” Betty said, fidgeting with her necklace. “I mean, I feel bad asking, but I'd rather not – not tell people except close friends. Just cos... you know. My dad.”

“That's fine,” Bruce said hurriedly. “Honestly, I don't mind. I'd probably embarrass you anyway.”

“No you wouldn't.”

“You have _met_ me, Betty?”

“Well, maybe you'd embarrass me a little bit, but I'd do it straight back.” She grinned, and Bruce's stomach did a backflip.

“We should go out sometime,” she continued. “Just us. Not just... walking Leo.”

“Like – on a date?” Bruce definitely didn't squeak.

“Well, yeah.”

“Um. God. That would be – really good. _Really_ good. Um. Did you have anything in mind?” God, he had no idea how these things were supposed to work.

Betty looped her hair behind her ear. “Well, there's that new horror film out. The Woman in Black? I read the book, it's pretty good. Or we could see something else, or go out to eat, or – God, I have no idea, I'm pretty terrible at this.”

“Hey, at least you had ideas. The Woman in Black sounds good, I like horror movies.” How he was going to _pay_ to see a movie was another matter. Tony would definitely lend him the cash, but he hated the idea of asking. “We could – could go this weekend?”

“Brilliant,” Betty beamed. “It's a date. C'mon, let's find those books before the bell rings.” She pressed a fleeting kiss to his cheek and headed off to some other bookshelves, leaving Bruce blushing helplessly in their corner.

*

It was bucketing down with rain by lunchtime so everybody had to stay indoors. Bruce found Clint and Natalya in a corner of the crowded cafeteria. Clint produced a pack of cards from his bag and tried to teach them some magic tricks, but he seemed a little more subdued than usual.

“Was this your card?” Natalya asked, showing Clint the two of diamonds.

“Er. Yeah.”

“No.” Natalya put the cards down and leant her elbows on the table. “No, your card was three of spades. What is wrong?” 

“Nothing, Tash, I'm good, just got muddled-”

“You do not get 'muddled'. Tell me what is wrong.” She glared at Clint, who shifted in his seat. Bruce fidgeted slightly – he was a little concerned for Clint as well, but if he didn't want to say anything then Bruce wasn't about to make him.

“He doesn't have to say-” he began, and Natalya, quick as lightning, clapped her hand to his mouth, not taking her eyes off Clint.

“We your friends,” she said fiercely. “I tell you all things. Something is wrong.”

“I could go?” Bruce offered, gently moving Natalya's hand from his face. She and Clint were much closer, had been friends for so long; Clint probably just didn't want to say anything with Bruce there.

“Nah,” Clint sighed, shaking his head. “It's cool, man. You can stay.” He levelled his gaze at Natalya. “It's just Barney being a shit, as usual. Nothing new under the sun. Came home roaring drunk a few too many times.”

Bruce wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. What the hell was he meant to say to that? He knew all too well the utter misery of a family member being drunk too often. Natalya's eyes narrowed.

“Your brother is fool,” she said shortly. “He do not make you lie for him?”

“I covered for him a couple times, but then I told him I'd had enough of it. He was pissed, but I'm fucking sick of his shit, you know?” Clint groaned and dropped his forehead to the table, scrubbing his hands in his hair. “Argh. Sorry guys, guess I'm not much fun today.”

Natalya put a hand on Clint's shoulder. He moved his hand and took her wrist without lifting his head. Bruce wanted to leave, feeling like he was intruding on something private. He hadn't even said anything to Clint. Just as he was about to get up, however, Clint's other hand shot out, grabbing Bruce's arm and squeezing hard for a moment.

“Thanks,” he muttered, lifting his head and sitting up properly. “Sorry about that.”

“It's okay,” Bruce said awkwardly, rubbing at his arm where Clint had grabbed it. “Families can be shitty.”

Clint eyed him, then nodded. “Definitely. But hey, enough of that, I'm gonna teach you how to make a card disappear.”

*

Bruce was late for Calculus class. He'd stopped by his locker to pick up his books, only to have Mark hassle him. He had apparently still not forgiven Bruce for standing up to him over Christmas, especially as he had been in trouble but Bruce had escaped punishment. Mark tried to block the corridor, but Bruce managed to duck past him with only one shoulder to the chest for his trouble. He was heading to Calculus, his mind still on Mark, when he rounded a corner and nearly walked straight into someone.

“Sorry, I-”

“The bell rang five minutes ago, son. What are you doing out of class?”

It was Mr Ross, glaring down at Bruce with his arms folded over his broad chest.

“I – I'm sorry, Mr Ross, I was just getting my books – I'm on my way to Calculus now-”

Ross squinted at him. “You're Mr Banner?”

“Yes.”

“Who's your teacher?”

“Um. Mrs Oldfield.”

“Right. With me, Mr Banner.”

Bruce baulked as Mr Ross gestured for him to follow, but he made himself comply. He couldn't get on Ross' bad side; he'd heard that he was extremely strict. He trailed after him to Mrs Oldfield's classroom.

“Now,” Ross said in a low voice, looming over him. “You will be at your classess _on time_ , Mr Banner. If I hear you're late, or cutting class, there will be trouble.”

Bruce wanted to protest. Five minutes wasn't long at all, the class would barely have settled down, but he kept his mouth shut. He nodded instead, tightening his grip on his bag. “Yes, Mr Ross.”

He ducked into the classroom, muttering an apology to Mrs Oldfield, and Ross' eyes burnt into the back of Bruce's skull until he shut the door.

*

_Tony help_

_Why what did you do did you explode something without me there?_

_No. I need help but first you need to promise not to a) be mad and b) laugh_

_I AM INTRIGED AT ALL THIS MYSTERY BRUCEY WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN UP TO? I was only gone for a couple weeks! Did you shave your head? Did you shave your balls? HAVE YOU HAD A SEX CHANGE?_

_Yes. Yes to all of them. All at once. Now PROMISE._

_FINE I promise. Now gimme the goods Banner_

_OK I am going to the movies with Betty on Saturday and I am PANICKING_

_… BRUCE DID YOU ASK A GIRL OUT. DUDE. WHY THE HELL DID YOU TELL ME OVER TEXT WHY ARENT YOU HERE I AM GOING TO HAVE A CELEBRATORY BEER FOR YOU_

_OH MY GOD DID YOU MAKE OUT WITH HER AT YOUR BIRTHDAY I KNEW YOU DID YOU SLY DOG YOU._

_BRUUUUUUUUUUUCE_

_Tony you just sent me three texts in less than a minute, give me a chance. And yes, my birthday turned out to be pretty good after all._

_I BET IT DID dude nerds the world over would high five you for this so what do you need help for_

_Well. What do I do!? We're going to the movies but WHAT DO I DO._

_Well usually you go to the theater and you ask the vendor for tickets for a specific movie and then you give them the money. Thats a start. (BTW if you need cash I will give you cash let's skip the 'I'M NOT A CHARITY CASE TONY' bit because this is all in the good cause of getting you some more make outs)._

_I would argue but I am fully in support of that cause so. Thanks dude. I just think I'm gonna mess up in every possible way._

_Nah you wont I have faith in you big guy anyway shes already made out with you and she talks to you all the time so you have nothing to worry about_

_I always have things to worry about._

_Nothing to worry about that isn't IN YOUR HEAD. Ill come along in secret if you want then if youre messing up Ill trip her or something and you can catch her and be a big hero and she wont care if youre all weird then_

_There are so many ways that could go wrong I don't think I can even list them._

_Ill work on it. Theres a genius idea in there somewhere. Come over sometime before and Ill give you decent things to wear you arent going on a date looking like a science hobo_

_I like looking like a science hobo._

_Well you will look that way a bit because of your stupid hobo hair but you are not taking a lady out on the town without smartening up big guy_

_Wow it's like having a sassy gay friend._

_I am better than anyone's sassy gay friend._

_If you say so._

_I do say so. Now go get the girl Bruceykins_

*

Throughout the week, Bruce's mind kept wandering to his planned date with Betty, and his stomach would squirm with a curious mixture of excitement, fear and just plain nausea. He came up with increasingly outlandish scenarios about what could go wrong, mostly involving his own idiocy and incompetence, but occasionally involving a natural disaster or an appearance by Mr Ross.

Ever since the vaguely threatening encounter at the beginning of the week, Bruce began to notice Mr Ross seemingly everywhere. He stalked the corridors at the end of the lunch period to chivvy the stragglers, and even though Bruce made a point of being on time he was still singled out for comment.

“Move along there, Mr Banner.”

“The bell's already gone, Mr Banner, hurry up.”

“Anyone would think you were a sloth or something,” Clint said one day, shaking his head. “I'm always late for class but I never get all of that. Have you pissed him off?”

“I dunno. He caught me when I was a bit late for Calculus the other day but that's all.” Privately, Bruce wondered whether Ross knew he was friends with Betty – or if he suspected there was more. Whatever it was, he was pretty certain that Ross didn't like him.

This view was confirmed on Friday afternoon. The rain had cleared up, though it was still so cold that everybody wrapped themselves in scarves and gloves when out on the grounds. Bruce, Clint and Natasha went up onto the roof at lunchtime for the first time all week, passing around cigarettes from their depleted stash and listening to Clint's latest complaints about his brother. When the bell rang they clambered down by the dumpsters, out of sight of the rest of the schoolyard.

“Aha. I thought as much.”

Clint came to a halt and Bruce almost walked into him. Behind them, Natasha dropped soundlessly from the dumpster to the ground. Mr Ross was standing a few feet away, his arms folded and his face red with anger.

“I knew someone had been on the roof,” he growled. “You three – follow me.” 

Bruce exchanged looks with Clint and Natasha. Clint shrugged, looking resigned. Natasha's face was expressionless. Bruce tried to swallow his worry – he was no stranger to being in trouble with teachers, but being in trouble with Betty's _dad_ was another thing entirely.

They followed Mr Ross to his office in silence. Once there he shut the door with a slam and sat himself behind his desk, leaving the three of them standing in an awkward row. At least, Bruce felt awkward. Clint was rocking back on his heels and gazing at the ceiling in apparent fascination, whilst Natasha stood perfectly still, her eyes narrowed.

“Mr Barton, we have had words about your propensity to use school property as a climbing frame,” Mr Ross said, his moustache bristling. “Did you not understand what I was saying to you the last time? Are you stupid, Mr Barton?”

“Maybe so, Mr Ross,” Clint said. His voice was casual but there was an edge to his tone.

“Don't you cheek me, son. This is the third time you've been caught. I think we need to take you in hand a little. You're suspended for the rest of the day, and you'll be spending your lunch times next week with a member of staff. _Without_ your friends. Am I clear?”

“Can you repeat that, Mr Ross?”

“You heard me, son.”

“Yes, Mr Ross.”

“Miss Romanov. You will be suspended for the rest of the day. Detention after school on Monday. If I see you _anywhere_ unauthorised again then we will take this further.”

Natasha nodded slightly, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “Yes,” she said. Her voice was expressionless.

Mr Ross glared at her for a moment and then nodded. “You two,” he pointed at Clint and Natasha, “go and wait in reception. Now.” 

Panic fluttered in Bruce's stomach. Why were they being sent away? Why was he being left on his own? Clint shot him a worried look, but he and Natasha had no choice but to leave. The door snicked shut behind them.

Mr Ross folded his hands on his desk and leant forward slightly. “Mr Banner. I don't know what kind of ship they run at Green Fields, but here at Sandworth we do _not_ tolerate the kind of stunts you've been pulling.”

Bruce didn't say anything. He kept his eyes on the window behind Ross' shoulder.

“Ever since you arrived here I have had reports of insolence in classes – not paying attention to your teachers. You've been found pushing other students around. I have personally caught you turning up late for class. And now I see you disrespect the school further by climbing all over the property like a damn monkey.” He breathed out heavily, his moustache fluttering. “It is _not_ good enough, Mr Banner.”

Bruce had to say something to defend himself. Anger was burning in his stomach. “Mr Ross, I've had good marks in my classes. I was only late that one time, and that was beca-”

“I do not want excuses, Mr Banner. Your behaviour is _not_ good enough. You may think that you can do as you please with everybody feeling sorry for you, but the rules still apply.”

That was so unfair that Bruce opened his mouth to speak again, but Ross overrode him.

“You are suspended for the rest of the day. Detention after school on Monday, with me. This stops now, Mr Banner. Now go to the reception and I will call your... guardian.”

Bruce went, his hands shaking.

“

“What happened?”

Bruce slumped further down in David's car. “I was on the roof.”

“Yes, so I've been informed. _Why_ were you on the roof?”

Bruce shrugged. “Wanted to see what it was like.” 

“Who were the other kids with you?”

“My friends.”

David glanced at him sidelong. “D'you think you should be friends with people who encourage you to break the rules?”

“We weren't hurting anyone! We were coming down in time for class! I _like_ Clint and Natasha. I'm not going to stop being friends with them.” Bruce leant his forehead against the cool car window. A dull ache was starting up behind his eyes.

“Mr Ross has a lot of concerns about how you're getting on at school.”

“My marks are good. I have friends. I do my homework. I go to class.”

“There's more to it than that, Bruce.”

“I don't care,” Bruce said sullenly. “I don't _care_. What the hell does it even matter?”

David sighed. “Okay. I'm sorry Bruce, I know you're not finding it easy to adjust, and you are doing well in school.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Tell you what. You stay off the roof in future, and I'll tell Grace we already sorted this out so there's no need for more punishment.”

Bruce eyed David distrustfully. He might have argued, except he _needed_ to be allowed out tomorrow to see Betty. “Okay.”

“No more roof?”

“No more roof.” Well. He just wouldn't get caught again.

“Okay. How about pizza? I've not had lunch yet.”

*

On Saturday afternoon, Bruce wondered vaguely whether he was going to throw up. He tugged at the collar of his borrowed shirt. Why was it so hot? He was waiting outside a theatre in the freezing January air. God, was he sweating too much? Maybe he was actually sick. That would be just perfect – getting a fever and throwing up. Very romantic.

He was glad that he had turned down Tony’s offer of secretly seeing the film too. He wasn’t sure he would put it past him to interfere in some way, especially considering the ‘helpful’ texts he’d been sending the previous night. He seemed to think that his advice would lead to Betty kissing Bruce. Bruce imagined that it would actually result in her slapping him.

Still. Tony’s advice had been nothing on Steve’s. His parting words of, “Just be yourself” had been entirely comfortless. The last thing he should do was be himself. No one wanted to date someone _that_ screwed up.

God. This was going to be a complete disaster.

“Hey Bruce,” Betty said from behind him, and he only just managed not to jump.

“Hi,” he blurted, turning around quickly and almost unbalancing himself. Betty was wrapped up in a thick coat and scarf, a red knit hat pulled over her hair, and her cheeks were pink with cold. “Um. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m okay. Sorry I’m late, I had to persuade Dad that I was going to Marie’s. I hope you weren’t waiting for long.”

“No, no, not long at all.” Bruce didn’t like to mention that he’d arrived twenty minutes early out of fear of being late. “Um. Shall we go in? You look frozen.”

“Yeah, I get cold easily. I’d be better off living somewhere hot, except I burn to a crisp the minute the sun comes out.”

“So somewhere warm but cloudy?” Bruce suggested, holding the door to the theatre open for her.

“Yeah, that’d be perfect.”

“I do much better in hot weather than cold. I can’t wait for summer.”

“I could have guessed that. You’re not all pale like me, you look, like Mediterranean. Have you got any Italian in you?”

“Um, yeah. My grandparents were Italian. That’s why I ended up with this,” Bruce gestured to his raucous hair which he had tried in vain to tidy up that morning.

“Well, I’m glad. I like your curly hair – it’s cute.”

Bruce felt his face heat and he almost walked into a cardboard cut-out advertising a new blockbuster movie. Betty giggled and grabbed his hand, towing him to the ticket booth. 

It turned out that whilst Betty _loved_ horror movies, she was also scared by them. She jumped and squeaked throughout the film, and at one point grabbed Bruce’s arm and hid her face in his shoulder going, “Oh God! Oh God!” Bruce tried not to laugh, and concentrated on the warmth of her pressing against him.

Bruce rather enjoyed the film. He liked ghost stories, and The Woman in Black had a decent level of spooky, though the ending was a little too melancholy for him. He didn’t like to think about the idea of the afterlife, these days.

“That was really good,” Betty enthused as they left the cinema.

“Are you sure? You didn’t see most of it.”

She elbowed him lightly then took his hand in hers, linking their fingers together, and maybe one day that wouldn’t make Bruce feel a little faint. “Being scared’s all part of the experience,” she retorted. “Did you like it?”

“Yeah, yeah I did.”

“That’s good. I thought at one point I’d made a really bad decision, that maybe we’d have been better to see something happier…” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Bruce reassured her quickly. “Honestly. I like horror films. Zombies, ghosts, all that stuff.” He pushed away the slight ache that the final scene had left him with. “Anyway, I don’t have any traumatic memories associated with creepy rocking chairs.”

“Oh God, don’t mention the rocking chair. That was _terrifying._ ”

“I’m gonna start thinking you’re a coward, Betty.”

“Pfft. Well, you can protect me from demonic rocking chairs, right?”

“Sure, why not? I’m sure I could take on wooden furniture.”

“My hero,” she deadpanned. “Should we go and get a coffee or something? Something warm, anyway.”

They found a busy café opposite the theatre, and Bruce watched in awe as Betty ordered the most elaborate hot chocolate on the menu. 

“You should try one,” she said, fishing in her purse for money. “They’re really good.”

“I think you’ve got an entire cow’s worth of whipped cream on that.”

“Yup, that’s the point. C’mon Bruce, indulge! You’re not watching your waistline are you?” 

Despite himself, Bruce grinned. “What, you don’t like my svelte figure?”

“I just don’t want you to blow away in the wind, that’s all.”

It was fun, sitting with Betty and talking about fantasy and sci-fi. He insisted that she absolutely had to watch the new Battlestar Galactica, and she gave him an impassioned speech about why Janeway was the best captain of the Enterprise before they drifted into discussion about which Hogwarts house they would be in. Under the small table Betty’s legs kept knocking into his, and he suspected she was doing it deliberately. He pressed his knee to hers and she pressed back, smiling and blushing. Bruce wanted to kiss her.

“This – has been really good,” he mumbled, suddenly unable to look her in the face. “I don’t understand why you’d want to go out with me, but it’s… it’s been fun.”

“Hey.” Betty reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “I want to go out with you because I _like_ you. You’re smart and you make me laugh and we’re interested in the same stuff. And you’re cute, that helps. I’ve had a really good time, Bruce. We should do it again.”

Bruce nodded so hard he must have looked like a jack-in-a-box. “Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes, definitely.”

“Excellent.” Betty leant over the small table and kissed him. It was a little clumsy and she tasted of chocolate and marshmallow. Her face was pink when she sat back, but she was smiling.

“So,” she said. “Best Harry Potter book?”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony wants to kiss everybody, Mr Ross has it in for Bruce, and Brian Banner can't leave well enough alone.

The high of having been on a successful date with Betty stayed with Bruce through the rest of the weekend. He kept replaying moments in his head – the way she'd clutched him in the theater, the unselfconscious way she'd taken his hand, how she'd kissed him over the table – and was so distracted that he lost three chess games in a row. 

“It went well then?” Steve asked after his third checkmate, a smirk on his face.

“Huh?”

“The _date_. It went well.”

“Oh.” Bruce felt himself blush, but he couldn't help smiling. “Yeah, it... it really did.”

Steve laughed. “She seems really nice,” he said. “And you look a lot happier.”

“I guess I am.” And wasn't that something? Bruce had very little experience with happiness, but this certainly seemed to qualify.

His good mood lasted through Monday, where Clint spent most of the lunch break coming up with increasingly ridiculous reasons for Bruce's cheeriness until Natalya rolled her eyes and said, “Betty is his girlfriend now.”

“ _Seriously_?” Clint had been lying on his back in the undergrowth and had sat up so fast he seemed to make himself dizzy.

“Is obvious.” 

“How is it?” Bruce complained. 

“Oh my God _when did this happen_?” Clint demanded. “And why didn't you tell me?”

“I only told Tony and Steve! Because keeping secrets from Tony is impossible and I _live_ with Steve. How did you find out?” he turned to Natalya. 

She shrugged, inspecting her fingernails. “You were alone with her for long time on your birthday. You like her, she like you. And I hear her tell her friend.”

“You listened in on their conversation?”

“They not as quiet as they think,” said Natalya easily. “Is okay, I tell no one else. Except Clint.”

“Please don't. Her dad would freak.”

“Oh man, he would.” Clint's eyes glittered. “I spoke to her once when he was around and I thought he was gonna snap my neck. Well, good for you, Banner.”

Bruce sighed. Apparently his years of keeping secrets were over, but he found he couldn't care. Things really did seem to be turning up at last.

That feeling lasted until that afternoon, when instead of going out to the school bus he had to trudge to Mr Ross' office for his detention.

“Ah, Mr Banner. Come in, sit down.” 

Ross was stood behind his desk, his hands behind his back. A small desk had been set up at the side of the room, clearly for Bruce's use. Bruce took a moment to glare at Ross before dumping his bag on the floor and throwing himself into the chair.

“There are some Calculus exercises on those sheets,” Ross said, sitting down and opening a notebook. “You will complete them in silence, Mr Banner. Is that understood?”

Bruce pulled the sheets towards him and inspected them. The work was clearly of a much higher standard than were covered in classes here. What was Ross' game?

“I asked if that was understood.”

“You asked me to work in silence, Mr Ross.”

There was silence, then Ross heaved himself from his chair and came over to Bruce. He leant over, his hands planted firmly on the desk, his bristling moustache only inches from Bruce's face. “Let me make one thing clear,” he said in a dangerous, quiet voice. “You will not cheek me, boy. I expect the students in this school to act with respect, no matter what. Your teachers have been giving you an easy ride so far, but that stops here.”

Bruce glared at him. He imagined standing up, imagined punching Ross right in that quivering moustache, and stalking from the room. Then he thought about Betty, and how this was her dad. He swallowed and tried to school his features into something more bland. “Yes, Mr Ross,” he muttered.

The Calculus exercises were definitely more difficult than what they were given in class, but they were still depressingly easy. Ross looked highly suspicious when Bruce told him he'd finished after less than half an hour, and he flipped through the papers with a dubious air.

“Right,” he said finally, setting the papers down on the table. “One more toe out of line, Mr Banner, and we will have another confrontation. Now get out.”

Bruce turned on his heel, and got out.

*

He had only just stepped foot back inside Three Oaks when Grace appeared.

“Bruce, I'd like to talk to you for a moment.” 

Bruce stared at her, rapidly going back over the last few days in his mind, trying to pinpoint what he'd done wrong this time. “Why?”

“You aren't in trouble. I just need to discuss something with you.”

He followed Grace to her office and sat down, kicking his schoolbag under the chair. He couldn't work out what was going on at all. Dread prickled at the back of his mind.

“A letter arrived for you today,” Grace said, sitting down opposite him.

“A letter?” Bruce had no idea who would be writing to him.

“Yes. Now, it's policy here that all post for residents is screened before it's given to you, so I can tell you that the letter is from your father.”

Bruce's mind went blank for a moment. Grace's words seemed to hang in the air before them, making no sense at all. “What?” he asked, his voice seeming to come from a distance.

“He wrote to you from the prison. Now, it is entirely up to you whether you want to read the letter or not, Bruce. You absolutely do not have to if you don't want to. If you do want to read it then that is absolutely fine, though I will make sure that you have a chance to speak to Doctor Skervin afterwards.”

Bruce stared at the desk in front of him without really seeing it. A letter from his dad. Why had his dad written to him? What possible reason could he have for sitting down and writing words for Bruce to read? What the hell did he have to say?

He didn't know if he wanted to read it. The idea of seeing his words, whatever they were, made Bruce's skin crawl. But if he didn't read it, he'd just think about it, wonder what he'd said... maybe it was best to know?

“I don't know if I want to read it,” he mumbled. “Can I – have the letter and … decide?” Even if he did read it, he was going to do it in his own time and his own space. It was definitely not going to happen in the brightly lit office with Grace peering at him. 

She hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “Alright. I'm going to talk to Doctor Skervin and schedule in an appointment for you tomorrow after school. She's here until eight this evening if you need to talk to her before.”

Bruce knew for a fact that he wouldn't be talking to Doctor Skervin but he nodded anyway. Grace hesitated, then passed him the envelope. It was made of cheap paper and had an official looking stamp on it from Ohio State Penitentiary. The sight of his dad's handwriting chilled Bruce to the core, and he turned the envelope over so he wouldn't have to look at it.

“Can I go?”

Grace watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, yes of course. Thank you, Bruce.”

*

It took Bruce hours to open the letter. He sat and turned the envelope over in his hands, then shoved it under his pillow and tried to concentrate on other things, but his gaze kept drifting back to his bed where the letter lurked, an unknown monster. By dinner time he had still not opened it, and he picked at his food, unable to stomach the idea of eating. Steve watched him worriedly but didn't ask what was wrong, and Bruce was grateful for it.

His watch told him that it was gone midnight by the time he couldn't take it any longer. He flicked on the bedside lamp then sat, gazing at the letter in his hands. He didn't want to read it, but he needed to know what it said. Holding his breath, his hands shaking, he tore open the envelope.

_Dear Bruce,_

_I hope you don’t mind me writing you. I understand if you’re angry and if you don’t want to read what I have to say, but I’d like you to hear me out._

_I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for what happened. I know I was maybe a little harsh on you and your mom – I was always so stressed about work and it got me real depressed. I wasn’t earning as much money as I should, and trying to pay the mortgage, the bills, your school fees, it all got on top of me. It’s not an excuse for getting mad sometimes, but all I wanted to do was support my family._

_I never wanted this. I loved your mom, she was the apple of my eye and I would have done anything to protect her – and you. I hope one day you can forgive me and we can be a family again._

_Love,  
Dad_

If it wasn't for the fact that Bruce recognised the writing, he would never have believed that he had written it. He hated himself for the tiny spark of hope and relief in the corner of his mind, the part of him that had always been desperate to hear _love_ from his father. No, no, no, it was lies, just like in the courtroom. His dad was a liar, he had never been sorry, he had never had reasons, and he had _taken his mom away_.

Bruce wished he hadn't read the letter. He crumpled it into a ball and threw it at the wall, breathing hard, his heart hammering in his chest.

*

At breaktime the following day Bruce found a secluded corner of the schoolyard out of sight of everybody else and hunkered down to read over the crumpled letter again, desperate to find some sense in it.

_I can't being to tell you how sorry I am... I was always stressed...I would have done anything to protect her..._

Bruce folded the letter and clenched it tightly in his fist. It didn’t sound like his dad. It was too reasonable, too thoughtful, too _balanced_ to be his dad. This man – the one who just wanted to support him, to protect him, to love him – was like a different species from the one Bruce knew, the one who shouted and swore, who curled his belt round his hand, who called Bruce _worthless, freak, monster_ -

But… but he _had_ always had to work hard. They _had_ always struggled to pay their bills. Bruce knew that his school fees had been a burden…

“Bruce?”

He glanced up. Natalya had approached him in her usual silent manner and was gazing down at him, her expression unreadable. 

“Hi.”

“Hello.” She sat down beside him, clearly not remotely bothered by the cold ground. “We wonder where you go.”

“Sorry.”

She shrugged. “Is okay. Clint say to leave you alone, but I want to check if you’re alright.”

“I’m fine.”

Natalya snorted. “And I am King of Spain.” 

Despite himself, a smile flickered across Bruce’s face. He sighed, clenching his hand tighter around the letter in his hand. “Dad wrote to me. Said he was sorry, that he wanted us to be a family again.”

“Oh. Do you want to?”

“ _No_. But I – I dunno. He said he was depressed, that’s why he was so mad all the time.” He shrugged. “Maybe I should listen to him. But I – I can’t.”

“Bruce. I know of bad families. Clint knows also.”

“I know that.”

“And just because you are away from bad family does not mean you stop feeling bad. I feel bad still and I have been away for long time.” She settled herself a little more comfortably, her shoulder nudging against Bruce’s. “My parents die in fire.”

“Oh, that’s - that’s horrible.”

“Yes. So my uncle, he bring me to America. I do not speak English, I do not know anybody, I miss Mama and Papa. My uncle is bad man, very bad man, and I get taken away, given to other family. They are very nice, look after me, teach me English. I know my uncle is bad man, but sometimes I miss him, like I miss Mama and Papa.”

Bruce didn’t know what to say. Natalya was the most private person he had ever met. She didn’t give anything of herself away, and now she had just… laid out everything for him.

“I know your father is a bad man. He kill your mama. He must be bad before this, yes?”

“Um. Yeah, I- I guess.” Bruce remembered the fury in his dad’s eyes, remembered his raised hand, remembered the belt.

“It is okay if it still hurt you. It will hurt you for long time. Maybe for always. But you will be okay. I help you be okay, like Clint help me.” 

“Natalya-“

“Natasha, now.”

“Natasha.” Bruce swallowed, hard, and nudged his shoulder against hers. “Thank you. Um. I’m really sorry. About your mom and dad.”

She nodded, pushing some strands of red hair from her face. “And I am sorry about yours.” She got to her feet, held her hand out to Bruce. “Come on. We will be late for Spanish.”

Bruce let her haul him to his feet, stuffing the letter in his pocket as they went back inside.

*

It was difficult convincing Doctor Skervin that he wasn’t upset by the letter and Bruce suspected that she didn’t believe a word he said. He came close to spilling his thoughts, the words teetering on the edge of his tongue, but at Doctor Skervin’s expectant look he swallowed them back down. He wished there was an adult he _trusted_ , someone who genuinely cared about him, not just someone whose job was to act like they did. But there was no one.

He could tell Tony, of course. And Betty. And, when it came down to it, Clint and Steve and maybe even Thor, but he didn’t want to deal with their worry or anger or any other reaction; the very thought was just exhausting. 

Bruce took the letter out of his pocket, hesitating, then folded it up and stuck it between the pages of Frankenstein.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the letter to the back of his mind and went to play chess with Steve.

*

The letters continued to arrive. Twice a week, Grace would hand him a brown envelope with his name on it, her face creased with concern. They all said much the same thing: he asked for forgiveness, made excuses for his behaviour, claimed love, worry and affection for Bruce. 

Bruce never talked about them. There were too many to hide in Frankenstein now, so he bundled them together and kept them at the back his desk drawer where he tried to forget about them.

If Bruce was anything, he was good at hiding things. He knew how to push things right into the furthest corners of his mind; the letters, the anger and the strange twisting guilt were sent back into the dark where nobody could touch them, and he continued with his life.

It snowed heavily for Clint's birthday, so rather than the huge party he had been envisioning they had a huge snowball fight in Tony's backyard before playing video games and watching movies until the evening. The snow was so heavy by that time that Steve persuaded Jarvis to telephone Three Oaks to get permission for he and Bruce and stay over.

“I've never had a sleepover before,” Steve admitted as he and Clint battled it out on MarioKart.

“What, you mean Three Oaks isn't one giant sleepover?” Clint teased.

“Oh, it's non-stop fun,” Bruce agreed from where he was slumped on the sofa. “Everyone should try it. Orphanages for everyone.”

“It's not an orphanage, Bruce,” Steve pointed out. Bruce shrugged. He was absorbed in texting Betty rather than listening to the flow of the conversation. 

Tony and Thor came back to Tony's room carrying crates of beer, bottles of liquor and shot glasses. Tony leant over the back of the sofa and snatched Bruce's cell.

“Hey!”

“Aww, this is _sweet_ , Brucie.”

“Fuck off, Stark.”

Tony laughed and scrolled through the messages. “Bit flirty isn't she, Ms. Ross? Although apparently _you_ are too, Banner. You've been holding out on me.”

“Maybe because I don't want to flirt with you.”

“Whatever man, I'm your first love, we all know it.” Tony dropped the cell phone back in Bruce's lap. “Games off, boys. If we're celebrating Clinton's birthday with a sleepover, we're gonna do it the right way.”

“Please don't tell me you mean stupid drinking games.”

“Clint, Clint, Clint. What sort of drunken sleepover is it _without_ Spin the Bottle?”

“Tasha is the only girl here.”

“You have a problem with kissing me, Barton? Bruce doesn't, do you Bruce?”

“I don't think I've ever been given a choice in the matter. Ow!” 

“I played this game once,” Thor volunteered, picking up Bruce's glasses from where Tony had knocked them off his face with a cushion. “My friend Fandral was most … enthusiastic. Which is unfortunate, as he already has a beard.”

Clint laughed. “Stubble burn, Thor?”

“It was most uncomfortable.”

“Well that's okay, we're all fresh-faced and moisturised,” Tony said cheerfully. “Except possibly Bruce. He's mostly made of hair. You'll be safe with Stevie Wonder, though.”

“Er.” Steve had gone slightly pink. “I – are we _actually_ playing this game?”

“Yes.” Tony poured several shots of vodka. “Yes we are, and you are too Rogers, if you don't want to walk home in the snow.”

“That's coercion,” Steve pointed out, though he did take the proferred shot glass.

“This is terrible vodka,” Natasha decided, knocking back her shot the moment Tony handed it to her. 

“All vodka is terrible,” Tony said. “That's why you only drink it in shots. Right, ten bucks on who's gonna puke first. I say Rogers.”

“Only cos he's never been drunk before,” Clint pointed out. 

“You,” Bruce said. “You've thrown up on _me_ enough times.”

“What are best buds for, Big Guy?”

“I will be last,” Natasha decided.

“Nonsense. I shall outdrink you all.” Thor thumped his fist into his chest for emphasis.

“Probably,” Clint agreed. “Since you're three times the size of us. That's okay Thor, you can put us all to bed.”

“Clint wants you to take him to bed, Thor,” Tony leered. 

Bruce kicked him. “You haven't even drunk anything yet. Save the lechery.” Tony just grabbed Bruce's ankle and pulled him from the couch to the floor, thrusting a drink into his hand.

They knocked back a few shots each before starting the game, by which point Steve was already pink-faced and tipsy. The buzz of alcohol was pleasant in Bruce's veins and he felt almost relaxed as he watched Tony carefully line the an empty bottle up and spin it to face Clint who looked resigned to his fate. Natasha pulled out her cell and took several photos of Tony and Clint kissing.

“Not bad,” Tony grinned, sitting back. “Don't be shy about your tongue though, Barton.”

Steve went absolutely scarlet when Natasha spun the bottle to face him, and he gave her a very brief and gentle peck on the lips. She rolled her eyes, grabbed his face, and kissed him properly. Bruce had to join in the laughter at the shocked look on Steve's face. 

The shocked look did not abate a few moments later when Thor seized Steve by the shoulders and pressed a hard kiss against his mouth.

Bruce spun the bottle and sighed dramatically as it landed on Tony, whose face lit up with an evil grin. “C'mon then, Banner. Lay one on me.”

“You're a dick,” Bruce informed him, but he leant over and kissed Tony anyway. Of course, it couldn't be a simple kiss; Tony's hands were in his hair and his tongue was in Bruce's mouth but Bruce was too drunk to even care. Tony broke away with a smacking noise, beaming, and promptly grabbed Bruce's cell from the couch.

“Gotta keep Bettykins abreast of matters,” he said, thumbs flying over the screen as he craned back out of Bruce's reach. He snickered. “Hah. 'Abreast'.”

“You are child,” Natasha informed him, knocking back another shot of vodka. “Let's play different game.”

Tony and Clint immediately began to argue about which drinking games they should play. Bruce lay on his back, his head spinning pleasantly, and squinted as he tried to read Betty's reply to Tony's text.

_Did you get a picture? x_

_Its Bruce again. Tony is a dicjk. Sory hes a dick._

_Oh God now you're drunk texting me. That is hilarious. Are you done kissing Tony? X_

_Tony kissef ME. I only want to kiss youj._

_Aw, that's very sweet. I'd rather kiss you too. Even if you are drunk x_

_Not thatrt drink. Only a bit._

_OK. I believe you. Aren't you missing out on the games? X_

_No they are arfguign about what to play. Thor wants strip pokfer. That would be bad._

_Would it now? x_

_YES I am bad at pokert. But Its ok its not poker its truth or daer. That might be worse._

_I can't imagine what Tony would dare you to do... x_

_I dont think Tony can shock me but Steve might die. That woldnt be good. Steve is nice._

_He is, yes. You have nice friends. X_

_Its weird Im not sposed to have frineds. Youre nicer though. The nicest. X_

_Aw, thank you. You're lovely. And you are supposed to have friends x_

_Im not. And nice is a horrible word Im sorry for sdaying youre nice. Youre amaxzing._

_So are you. I'm going to bed – go and join the party. Have a good time, don't be too hungover! X_

_Sleepf wellll x_

Bruce lost track of the games and the drink after a while. By the time three a.m rolled around Steve and Clint were sprawled across the sofa fast asleep. Clint was snoring, but it was drowned out by a long Norwegian song that Thor was meandering through from his place on the floor. Natasha had curled herself into an improbably tight ball in the armchair and was sleeping so silently Bruce almost wanted to check that she was breathing. 

Around an hour ago he and Tony had collapsed onto Tony's double bed. Tony was muttering to himself and plucking at Bruce's hair with one hand, the other arm thrown over Bruce's chest. Bruce stared at the ceiling. The alcohol that had made him giggly and loose-limbed had now started up a pounding headache. A heavy lassitude settled on his limbs and grey melancholy stole over him.

“Cheer up, Big Guy,” Tony muttered. His nose was pressed to Bruce's shoulder. “Things're shit but you're okay. You got us.”

“Yeah.”

“I c'n feel you worrying. Stop. No worrying today. 's party day.” Tony tugged at Bruce's curls lightly. “Go t' sleep.”

“I would, but you're pulling my hair.”

Tony snickered. “Stopping now. Gonna sleep. Will Thor stop singing?”

“Possibly not. Possibly never.”

“Norway has long songs.”

“Go to sleep, Tony.”

Bruce lay awake staring at the ceiling long after Thor's song died away, Tony's snuffling breaths warm against his shoulder.


End file.
